The fence next door is peeling

The fence next door is peeling.

The silvery coat paid for

as a promise—

of lasting,

of brightness,

of staying—

is giving back to rust.

Orange blooms beneath.

Patient. Slow.

I watch from my kitchen window

the way time makes a liar

of everything treated

to keep.

The metal was supposed to refuse

this kind of decay.

Supposed to stay permanent,

stay the thing we bought it to be.

But the rust knows better.

Knows what metal wants,

knows the coating is temporary,

knows that underneath

the silvery promise

is always the slow oxidation,

the slow return.

My neighbor will paint it again

or let it rust completely.

Either way,

the fence is teaching me

about surrender,

about how nothing treated

stays treated.