Grapes

As I coast down the road,
The temperature says it's 102 degrees outside,
Blasting my music and the A.C.,
It's a nice drive.
 
But then I notice the fields,
They're out there picking grapes,
In the blistering heat.
 
I look in the mirror,
At my brown face,
Thinking I was given the opportunity
to get an education,
to find a comfortable life,
Yet those migrant workers
Out there earning a living
Must have dreams and aspirations of their own,
To give their daughters and sons a chance.
 
And the fields are miles long,
There must be hundreds of them out there.
 
I turn the music down for a moment,
And tell my sons,
Look, they're out there picking grapes,
Trying to earn a living,
Half a decent wage.
 
But I guess we all have to  start somewhere,
And although I felt a heavy heart for them,
As I drive down the highway fast,
I couldn't fathom their pain,
Their dreams and aspirations,
Their work feeding nations,
Because they're out there,
Picking up more than grapes.