This morning was no different
- salted wind met sprained metal,
moistened breath sliced by hard edges.
But saline dew softened the unrelenting
iron with reddish-brown blisters.
The man walked through the junkyard
- again reminded of his life,
the corrosion of time, and carelessness.
Around his worn hands curled soft fingers.
His daughter looked up at him,
and he saw hope in her eyes,
remembered why he called her “Apple”.
She, the seed of beauty in his life.
(For my teacher Ramon, who reminds me to write.)