I’m the tool left broken now
Shaky, dry hands handled me
Walking slowly through the garden
Grandma’s hands worked flowers’ fingers.
  
I rested near the screen door
In case a weed showed its face
She’d grab me, walk out snaily
Push me the ground and shake me.
  
Now I’m setting by your porch
Wooden, scared, pitted white paint,
Can’t bring yourself to toss it,
Sentimental seasons remind you.
 

Dave Barber

23 Nov 08

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