Oxidation

The garden shears are locked in a permanent bite,

holding onto a dead branch of forsythia.

I forced the handles until my palms went red,

but the hinge has traded its silver for orange grit.

It’s a slow fire that doesn't need a match.

I look at the toolbox left out in the rain,

the lid fused shut by a summer of storms,

a jar of bolts turned into a single, jagged solid.

I scrape the flakes from under my fingernails.

It’s the color of a sunset that stayed too long,

reminding me that if you leave a thing alone,

the air will eventually find a way to eat it.