Ode To My Gardening Gloves

Alas, beautiful gardening gloves, I knew you well. I remember that early March morn; I opened your package and slipped you onto my hands. At first you were a bit stiff and uncomfortable. Over time you softened and became my weekly companion, pulling weeds, cutting flowers, and guiding the nozzle on the water hose allowing our foliage to flourish even during the hot summer months. You've faded, though, from our days together in the sun. Your bubble grippers are worn, your fingers tattered and torn--worse for the wear. I will surely miss you as I will miss the warm, languid summer days we shared together. Soon, I'll cover my hands with woolen mittens or furry gloves. But you'll hold a special place in my heart as I stand on my front porch shivering and yearning for next spring's arrival. Inside my desk drawer I've placed my new pair of gardening gloves, already purchased for next spring. Each morning during the seemingly endless dreary winter months, I’ll open my desk drawer and slip them onto my hands, embracing the hope they symbolize. oh! frost in the air mist is on the nearby hills ugly bulbs in hands dig, bulbs are planted they slumber peacefully while waiting faithfully in silent darkness locked in winter's frozen sleep secretly they grow bulbs work mystery some morning soon in springtime pale, green tips appear soon scarlet blossoms slowly emerge, gracefully beauty to behold