Inert

The yellow bucket is wedged in the frozen mud

where the woods begin to swallow the back fence.

It looks like a piece of bone, or a dull stud

lost by a giant who lacked any common sense.

A jagged crack runs down from the brittle rim

where the sun has chewed the polymer into dust.

The handle is gone. The prospects are slim

for anything here that can't manage to rust.

It will stay there long after I’ve packed my bags.

It won't decay or soften or join the dirt.

While the rest of us turn into shadows and rags,

the plastic just sits there, bright and inert.