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

 

 

Published by

Shannon Laws

Shannon P. Laws, born in Seattle, Washington, lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. Author of three poetry books, "Madrona Grove", "Odd Little Things", and "Fallen" and an audiobook of her select mid-life dating satire poems, "You Love Me, Your Love Me Not". For seven years she produced award-winning community radio programs that promoted the PNW music/art community. Shannon's other interests include operating her voice-over company, Chickadee Productions, and Poetry Club. Since 2015 Poetry Club is dedicated to the neighborhood discussion and sharing of poetry.

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