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.

an old garden shed, in an old garden