Tin Can Holding Breath

That hollow clink beneath the snow—

a tin can, battered and bent,

its jagged lips poke through frost,

like a mouth gasping air it never meant.

Sunlight hits rusted dents,

sharp edges cold against white,

yet inside, silence holds tight,

a breath caught between day and night.

Forgotten, tossed aside,

a vessel cracked but still there,

waiting for a voice to shake it loose,

or maybe just waiting for the cold air.

Snow softens, but it won’t dissolve

this stubborn thing pressed to the earth—

a quiet weight, a hollow sound,

a beat suspended just before birth.