Back curved by rheumatoid arthritis, morning to night, I watched my old man pick. His branch-like hands worked over the dwarf plants until the daylight hours were all spent.
“The trick is to pull the white stuff from the boll without getting a nasty nick. And remember,” he pointed at me for emphasis, “do not put two hands on the same boil.”
In one magic motion, he removed the fluff without the backlash of the bur. “Never reach for the same boil twice, and be sure to alternate left and right.”
I copied his motions and took in my first harvest.
Wiping his brow with a white t-shirt, my old man paused, lifted my cotton skyward where it took the place of an absent moon.
“You cannot pluck moonlight to bring in your pocket, child, but it’s cotton, not moonlight, keeps the lanterns lit.”
dVerse Poet’s Pub | 144 words prosery to include the line “You cannot pluc moonlight to bring your pocket.” Helen Hoyt “October Letter”
Cover Artwork: My Cotton Picking Story
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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