Broken
By David Barber

I'm the tool left broken now
Shaky, dry hands handled me
Walking slowly through the garden
Grandma's hands worked flowers' fingers.

I rested near the screen door
In case a weed showed its face
She'd grab me, walk out snaily
Push me in the ground and shake me.

Now I'm sitting by your porch
Wooden, scarred, pitted white paint,
Can't bring yourself to toss me,
Sentimental seasons remind you.