Grandma

in her vegetable garden, tipping the rusted pail:well-water spills in the spring leaves,like broth into green bowls.Over-filling:water leaks thru soil-pores,again into stone well where it waits for him, who will not come to shift the heavy lid. I clasp her tissue-handin (was it?) prayer.

I like this poem because it is showing the love of her husband. I like it because it shows the meaning of the hurt and pain of losing someone.