Poetry Oxide

Poetry oxidation won’t do
in a vacuum, but the way
it oxidizes depends
which side I’m on.

If I’m the reader,
it’s the copper turning
gemstone-green, increasing
in value and beauty,
more greatly admired
for its longevity,
unweakened by time,
anticipated like time-
honored statues, valued
like revered domes of
well-planned classic
architecture.

But if I’m the writer,
it’s the rusty nail insidious
and hidden in blades
of tall grass. It may
or may not be there,
so I scare myself back
into rubber-soled shoes
so I won’t get lockjaw.
Yet there’s nothing
like lush grass under toes,
so I look up
old records and find
my tetanus shots up to date,
and again I dare
walk barefoot.

***

For the combination photography and poetry prompts on “rust.” (My photos will eventually go up on my flickr account.)

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