Monday Poem

Struck With Rust

from a chair close by the hydrangea in white,
and a wheelbarrow old and purely struck with rust,

the hydrangea’s lace planets in close galaxies of
three-petal poems,

the barrow’s hard, black tire and load of pulled weeds
which, until the other day, into life were thrust

now busted, heaped in a dry, foot-deep dome
in the barrow’s bed—

soon this pile of past-life will go, returning home
to nowhere in particular, but home nonetheless

to be (in quantum parts, by chance) reassigned
a place in the eternal ring

to bloom again, to be particles
in the Unknown’s newest thing

by Jim Culleny