1. Vivid imagery. I love the sound and colour.


    Wailing while in heat, is it obsolescence,
    or it is simply outright rejection? “Rusty”
    could be the feline’s tag, a dirty brown
    tomcat losing his prowess at seduction.

    Scurrying to provide for winter freeze,
    the dark-tailed rodent stands on its
    hindlegs, spits out mulch and coughs
    out a wheeze sounding like a nasty scold.

    Rusty at a chore at season’s turn?
    Or is it simply its mute gnashing
    over a tardy spring, and O so little time
    between a lean fall and a dying year.

    A hop and a weak chirp from a jay
    that has strayed into a rusty bird-feeder,
    is a clean shot at “rusty” except that its
    cry betrays a failing in its warbling job.

    When the black cherry leaves are coppery
    red, is that not a vision of what is truly
    rusty? The flaccid branches would soon
    see these brittle foliage break away…

    but could not stop a quotidian plummeting
    when winds rattle them into a quavering
    that can only look from where I sit like
    trembling hands gripping a rusty trowel.

    Perhaps the yeoman in the sky has become
    rusty in a doddering way, he/she/it/they
    could no longer command blind obedience
    from settlers who have learned to brandish

    their rusty plows like rusty swords against
    all that is slow in ther earthly impatience.

    — Albert B. Casuga

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