Sabina Soloway

A retired elementary educator, Sabina Soloway has been everything from classroom teacher to playground designer. Currently, she’s a writing coach and editor for kids applying to college. In her time not working in the education space, she is finally weaving together her love of close observation and the written word.

The Gardener (POEM)

Right hand picked up the Felcos—

red handles, curved blades—

a withered flower dropped

between stems to its rest.

Left hand swiped away sweat,

readjusted the weathered straw

hat from Italy, his sun

and soil roots.

Those hands had tended,

coaxed and loved

all things in his flowering,

fecund and generous Eden.

Competent and calloused, once

they now lay idle

on the round table

below the ceiling fan.

They began to forget how to

coil the green hose,

prune spent blossoms,

turn the pages of the Times.

And when I visited,

I took his beautiful hands,

seeking similarities, familiarity.

My hands, my father’s hands.

I placed them gently in a shallow

soapy bowl, encouraged him

to keep them there a while

while we watched some minutes go by.

Then after a rinse, a dry cotton towel,

a little daub of gardeners’ salve,

he held mine and I held his

as a monarch landed on the milkweed.