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.
shannon p. laws 