The Tarnish

The afternoon failed of its promise and the sun
Hid in a thicket of clouds on its downward climb,
The bright day’s petals tattered and fell apart
Lost as a tower clock’s voice asleep at its chime.

I rocked on my heels and saw sleet’s rowdy hands
Rumple the tulip bed, a cold wind goaded
A child at play till she cried, I turned to stare
At a shallow hill where the topsoil had eroded.

The small mean faults of the day like blisters broken,
Rubbed raw, were slow to heal, I felt time’s wedge
Split need from the order of things, like a farm run down
By shabby intentions, a plow with a rusty edge.

I carry my doctor’s degree on such occasions
And speak at length on the tarnish of small losses.