Old Worn Gloves Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

Worn gloves on wood, a dusty pair,
Left glove split, beyond repair.
Brown earth clings, a faded stain,
From roses pruned, in sun and rain.

An older hand, that used to know
Each seed to plant, and where to sow.
The garden waits, a silent plea,
But those hands rest, eternally.

Now they rest, the work is done,
No more carrots, kissed by sun.
Gloves stay put, a silent sign,
Of days gone by, and bright sunshine.

The sun still shines, a golden ray,
Upon the gloves, that had their day.
A memory kept, in leather worn,
Of flowers grown, and battles born.

T.M.Solvang