Poem submitted to "1444 Up To You" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, February 18, 2026
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This poem is a response to the above picture and assignment for an online poetry class. At first, you are nothing~ just a whisper of damp, a blush on the cheek of iron. Then, the slow unmaking begins. You are the orange psalm of neglect, the liturgy of rain on forgotten things. You hymn about the ribs of old ships, the teeth of plows left in fields, the skeleton keys to houses that no longer exist. You take without hands. You kiss without lips. You are the color of time And when the wind combs through the carcass of a car, you answer in flakes~ each one a tiny, crumbling yes to the question no one asked. Oh, patient thief, you will inherit the earth. Not with fire, not with flood, but with your quiet, relentless rust.
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