A Rusting Key in the Soil

I leaned upon my staff and waited beneath the shadow of the tall fence planks. Beneath the tangled dry roots, something dull caught the afternoon light. I reached down with my boney fingers, brushing away layers of dark loam until a heavy, iron key lay loose in my palm. Its ridges were chipped, eaten away by quiet seasons. I turned it over several times, listening to the dry grit scrape against the metal, before setting it upright against a damp garden stone.