The latch is bent a tongue that won't quite catch

The latch is bent, a tongue that won't quite catch.

It hits the wood with a hollow, tinny sound,

tapping out a code I cannot read

while the dead leaves scrape across the ground.

I pressed my palm against the wire grid.

The gray oxidation came off on my skin,

a bitter, metallic smell of old rain

and the cold that’s trying to get in.

It doesn't stop the wind, it only breaks it

into a thousand smaller, sharper stings.

I stand in the dark and watch the yard,

listening to the way the loose spring sings.