Brittle

The sunroom is thick with a layer of grit,

I’m finally finding the heart to quit.

I lifted the wicker to clear the floor,

and heard a sound I’d heard before.

The handle gave with a sudden crack,

a splinter of wood that won't go back.

A fine, gray powder, soft as silt,

fell on my boots like a secret guilt.

The weave is broken, the season is done,

and I’m still hiding away from the sun.