Dreaming of Spring

On this sunny morning.  I know the snow will follow.

This time next week I will be having surgery. 

Here's a poem from my book  How the Hand Behaves:

 Garden gloves huddled

 

in a paper bag hanging on a hook

by the window where the ice clotted

bare branches quiver

and the sun sends their gnarled shadows on the snow below.

 

Garden gloves clean, soft, bleachy perfume,

stained brown and green,

some holy fingers clutch each other

while they wait.