Worthy Gloves

The brown boots of the man

who lives here

fill the garden gate

with promise.

I'll stand firm as a fern

and flower, make hay

in the blaze of morning glory,

temper the loam

in raised beds.

What becomes a man the most

is the woman he becomes a man for,

every shovel turned and tapped.

Snake coil hose

asleep in nasturtium,

scamper cat, chickadee twitter,

half canvas half leather,

worthy gloves slide along

the long wood handle, as chores

bend toward the Lord's sunset.

The hands inside the gloves,

the feet inside the boots

await our evening's pairing.

Left to left, right

to righteous,

drizzling sweat begins to dazzle

as the dance of jeans and cotton shoulders

becomes a wish

at the end of a candle.