The watchmaker's hands

The day the watchmaker's hands
twitched
and the first of many springs
danced madly across elbow creased rose wood
to play hide and seek behind a virginal carton
of brass cogs,

he put down his loupe and tweezers,
put on his hat and duffel,
and walked six miles and back
to the hardware store.

He leaned the shovel,
pristine in the corner
behind the umbrella stand.

It did not make a fuss
did not speak to anyone,
and the watchmaker
sat down with tweezers and twitches,
a firmer grip and elbows heavy.

And did what he did what he did.

The day the watchmaker's hands
twiched
and the last spring
sprung out of hand
and into history,

the shovel spoke and clattered,
louder than sound, stronger than motion.

The watchmaker
put down his loupe and tweezers,
put on his hat and duffel
and walked six feet and out

to bury a man
hunched over creased
rose wood.

The day the gardener's hands
twitched
he laughed and let them tremble.

Petals are more forgiving than cogs,
and there's enough beauty in fractals
to fill anyone's heart.