Orange Bloom

The chain on the swing set, where it meets the ground,

had begun its slow surrender, without a sound.

A deep, flaky orange, like a wound left too long,

a bruise spreading outward, humming its soft, iron song.

I ran a finger over it, and the fine dust came,

leaving a metallic kiss, a quiet, rusty claim

on my skin. It wasn't ugly, not exactly.

More like a slow, deliberate artistry.

How things break down, into their component parts.

Like certain arguments, or certain broken hearts.

Just shedding their layers, turning back to the earth.

And leaving behind a new kind of silent birth.

It stained my finger, a bitter, coppery hue.

And I thought of all the things that slowly undo.

Not violently, but with a patient, soft decay.

Just waiting for time to carry them away.