Exposure

The winter stayed late on the side of the shed.

The garden is dry and the lilies are dead.

I reach for the handle, a stubborn old brass,

choked by the weeds and the yellowing grass.

A turquoise bloom crusts the mouth of the pipe.

Not like a fruit that is heavy and ripe,

but a hard, chalky salt from the wind and the rain.

A color that grows from a long, quiet stain.