Oxide

The sky is a heavy, bruised weight.

It feels like the air is too late

to turn back from the coming ice.

I’m pulling the tomatoes, twice

checked for anything left to save.

Then a shard, like a blueish wave,

bit my finger and drew a bead.

An old bottle, a glass-blown weed,

buried under the dirt and grime.

It’s been waiting a long, long time

to catch the flat and greyish light.

The cobalt is too sharp, too bright.