What’s Kept

all those years before papaw died

spent in his tool shed among all the trinkets

he couldn't bring himself to let go

coffee cans of coins he had unearthed

oil cloths & torn socks for polishing

an elaborate cedar chest

neglected one month, never to be finished

a thousand treasures

for tiny hands to discover—child excavators deep

in the raven black tombs of king tut

our eyes feasted on gold pennies in forgotten crevices

with greed we pillaged a robin's nest of its turquoise gems

later

dust hung on the light-streaked

air and blanketed the splintered, sagging

work bench, starkly absent of his leather

hands and slouched shoulders; copper blossoms of rust

spread out like rough moss on all his tools

on the spade & the watering can

outside the garden grew wild

with butter-lover's dandelions

and queen anne’s lace—

beautiful weeds we couldn't bear to kill

wreathing the junk we couldn't bear to throw out

—Sarah Yost