Morning And Evening Poem by Michael Chitwood

The shed is out back.
The old tools hang from nails,
manning their stations.
The spade's blade would still cut
a snake in half. The blunt ax
would serve if hefted.
Buckets hold their emptiness
safe from rain.
The gray papers of wasps' nests
are not this year's news.
Mud dauber flutes pipe their silence.
She can find what she needs here
if she needs it.
The handles fit any hand.
The mattock leans at ease.
The saw's smile catches the late light.
The hammer's of two minds,
to strike or withdraw?
She closes in the evening
what she opens each morning.