Washed White

First snow of the year, a surprise.

I looked out, coffee steaming in my hand,

and saw the neighbor's yard, before my eyes,

a rusted washer, half-buried in sand.

But now, draped in a delicate, soft sheet,

the sharp edges blurred, the rust's harsh bite.

The grime, the brokenness, all complete

with a pure, forgiving blanket of white.

It didn't make it good, or less discarded.

Just for a moment, it wore a gentle grace.

Something ugly, suddenly guarded,

a brief, quiet beauty in that place.