His Glove

In the back of the shed,

behind the stacked pots,

I found it. A kind of dread,

or something less,

a quiet thought.

His gardening glove.

Stiff leather, cracked,

stained deep with earth.

The fingers curled, a pact

with soil. Not much worth

saving, perhaps. But still,

I pick it up. The heft

of it. A silent will.

The shape his hand had left.

Never quite fit.

Too big, too quiet.

Some things just sit,

waiting. A small riot

of feeling. Just this,

in the dust. A kind of miss.