The maker of gloves
is busy now. She knows
there are many hands
to sheath, much weeding
to be done. All the paths
of the garden are overrun
by brambles. The fountains
are covered in thorns.
The disarray didn’t happen overnight,
but in our present haste
to make things quickly right,
we’ve arrived with eager hands bare
and now they are bleeding, numb.
Attuned only to beauty,
how tender we’ve let
our hands become.
The maker of gloves
does not waste any time
tsk tsking. She starts
right in on her knitting,
infusing each stitch
with courage, ferocity.
Do not be surprised
when her gloves
arrive at your door.
Slip them on. They are
not for ornament.
She has made
them so you will feel
invincible. It’s not true,
but you must believe it.
The time for hard work has come.