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.