The Weathering

The party ended a year ago.

The guests all drifted to their better lives.

I stayed and watched the weeds start to grow

under the reach of the winter’s knives.

Behind the shed, the galvanized bucket sits.

The one we filled with ice and sweating cans.

It’s falling into rough and rusted bits,

making a mockery of my weekend plans.

The silver coating is peeling back in flakes.

Orange scabs are blooming on the heavy rim.

It’s full of rain and whatever the wind shakes

from the trees when the world goes gray and dim.