Broken Pot Dovecote
I had the soil
and roots to go by,
and they held, even
when my hands were
cold. The ocean has
one soul or many
that cool this work.
One always reaches
for the biggest
shards first and so did I,
and I felt the little
ones in my palm
all day. It was
silly to drop all this
indifference onto the
walk, in the form
of flowers, but the petals
stay there broken, and I use
my own hands for glue.
The soil and roots, your heart.
—Michelle Mitchell-Foust