Poem: Her Hands

pink tulips

 

Her Hands

The door squeaks Hello as I enter her sanctuary

The leather garden gloves still hold the hands.

I see them.

It is the first thing I see.

 

History molded into each finger strip

crooked right pointer finger

bump on the left where a ring sat

blacken ends that dipped in fresh soil

over and over

 

The pair rest near a dirt encrusted terracotta pot,

shears in their sleeve, handle still shiny.

Hedge trimmer hangs on a bent brown nail

frozen, half-open

 

But, the bulbs—

the bulbs below the counter

hidden in a beat up cardboard box

the to-be-planted promises

carry the weight of the room

 

She was ready for the early spring.

 

shed1-r

an old garden shed, in an old garden

 

 

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