A Sweater Too Long Hung
By Tom Sheehan

A sweater too long hung
on an iron spike near leather
goods of an old horse, tells tales.
One glove, fractured at wrist
and thumb, three gardens old,
capped on a spade handle, clues.
Scythe handle, spine scattered
to every degree, two blades dead,
holds a hundred years of sweat
waiting raccoon’s discovery
the slow night of a full moon
and wheat fields curling wet.
Size eleven khaki waders,
hung to dry ten years ago,
exhibit river remembrance
in deep-scarred veins
the way lake bottoms dry,
and whisper of accidents.
A red and black lumberjacket,
buoyant exclamation mark
beside the cellar door,
rigid as winter pond
yet soft behind my eyes, holds
the last day my brother knew.
If I were to gather all
these moderate artifacts,
the yield would be tender.