Trowel's Edge, Orange Dust

The trowel lay forgotten, lost

behind the shed, all winter long.

Now, rescued from the frozen frost,

it sings a different, rusty song.

The steel, once sharp, is eaten through,

an orange dust on brittle wood.

The handle, split, reveals its hue,

a lesson clearly understood.

It worked so hard, turned up the earth,

a shining tool, with purpose clear.

Now, all that's left is slow, sad birth

of ruin, year on silent year.

It crumbles when I rub the blade,

just flakes of rust upon my hand.

This quiet, patient, slow parade

of losing shape, across the land.