Seized

The hydrangeas are crisping at the edges

because I can't provide the drink they need.

I gripped the iron handle,

gave it a heave that should have moved a mountain,

but the metal didn't even shiver.

Instead, it left a dusting on my hand,

orange flakes like dried blood or cheap glitter.

The pipes are choked with time

and I’m just standing here with a dry hose

feeling the grit between my fingers.