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.