Garden shed in winter
It was unfazed by cold. In fact, it seemed
content with disuse. The rolled packs of seeds,
the bamboo poles and tomato cages.
The oil-stained floor and clods of dried grass.
I hadn’t touched anything since the fall,
when it was all I could do to keep from
rakes and tarps, tulip bulbs with their pom-pom
roots. The fly inside gave sense to it all.
Now I was there, wondering why I’d come.
The shovels leaned where I’d left them.
The spade and hoe. The twine hung from its peg.
There, a pea-sized mummy rolled in a web.
Couldn’t I see there was nothing to do?
I took a last look and pulled the door to.
