Rusty is the iron dog, lord of the hedge-nettle patch 
rain-rusted like the fire grate, the ruddied shovel, 
the rake’s long rained-on fingers, the squealing 
iron gate, the scooter’s wheels, the bicycle’s gears, 
the skate. 

Ruddy grow the grapevine and the currant leaves 
in winter, red the edges of the butterfly sage, 
the mound of liquidambar leaves that fall 
in dim December’s wind and rain. 

Gingery classmates linger now in memory: 
freckled blushers, rusty cowlicks, the copper-
haired girl once moved to say, I wasn’t left out 
in the rain, I was born this way; by now 
her rapturous red has surely turned to gray. 

Bio: Tamara Madison