Ratcheting Up Change

I loved to watch my father loosen bolts
that held the parts I could not recognize
nor name, much less explain, each unlike size
requiring him to reach for help, take hold
of a fresh socket from his metal box.
His socket wrench required little effort,
arm barely moved as rusted bolts unlock
from the dirt and grime of our Ford tractor.
I still love to place used sockets in their
tin slots, to feel the measured dimension,
the correct response to each condition.
Rarely used, the set continues to bear
the image of controlled power to relax
concepts rusted tight from calcified facts.

**

Replanting the Matriarchal Garden

Each time the tip of my garden trowel
cuts the membrane of earth in flower beds
beside my drive, I remember the model
nasturtiums, pungent shield-shaped leaves, reds,
and yellows, orange flowers from my mother¹s
vegetable garden, product of her green thumb,
often turned toward usefulness rather
than beauty. I remember my grandmum¹s
African violets on the lighted table
beside the cracked leather duofold,
fuzzed leaves rooting in jars with torn labels
destined to be given to friends more old
than new, and I can only think how glad
I am to turn the dirt, to move the dead.

**

Hammer

I grasp the hammer with a hand unused
to exerting force with tools or intention
and aim, the head poised in suspension.
Measuring distance, striking, I refuse
defeat by boards that weather had loosed
from my cedar fence. Pitted, conditioned
to fixing fences, the steel head had pounded
the staples that held barbed wire that enclosed
my father¹s farm. His sweat had left a sheen
on the handle I now held, but his strength
had not been sufficient to prison me.
From early years, my intention was keen
to leave, to find my way beyond the length
and breadth of his control, a way to be.

**

My Father’s Shovel

My foot applies pressure to worn metal.
The shovel point penetrates the ground
to plant Stella d’ora lilies, whose petals
will poke like yellow trumpets from the mounds
of dirt I move. The broken handle begs
to be replaced, but I cannot remove
wood that retains the father-fashioned peg
holding the pieces in its fine chiseled grove.
The pumpkin patch he spaded each spring, the graves
he dug for dogs and cats, the snow removed
from under Jim’s wheel the night he forgave
our late return, a date never approved.
I clean the dirt from hands that held what he
held. Lilies sound his melody to me.