HANDS
He was the first
One ever to show
Me anything, and
Make sense, about
A garden. When he
Called me down into
The fenced half-acre
I walked through the
Wire gate and found
Him shoulder high
In the early morning
Blossom of peas.
And snapping a pod
Open, with the same
Hands that cut timber,
Mended fence and
Milked cows — who
Came in here every
Morning before he
Went off to chores —
He put everything
Into my hands
When he said,
Now taste this.
___________________
from Where Rivers Meet
by Bob Arnold
Mad River Press (1990)
photo © susan arnold
