I found her shears in the garden today
though it’s years since she’s passed away;
I imagine she left them one morning
then nature took its course, consumed the pair.
Time unveiled them just now at this moment
in the mound of rocks we’d hill together,
tiny stone quarries nestled by the beds.
Strung Bougainvillea, tatted Queen Anne’s lace
grow through the handle loops about the blade,
whetted once, now too dull to pare the rose.
So petals and thorns need not be afraid
of falling prey to the anvil motions;
how I miss her steady hands, my twin soul.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 