I found the spigot behind the shed

I found the spigot behind the shed

where the weeds had climbed and the grass had bled.

It was thick with a crust of turquoise salt,

a frozen turn, a mechanical fault.

I gripped the handle to make it go,

wanting the sudden, silver flow,

but my thumb came away with a powdery stain,

the color of copper left out in the rain.

It’s what happens when you turn your back,

the slow-motion creep of the garden’s attack.

Things don’t just break with a snap or a thud,

they just quiet down in the seasonal mud.