On my patio, aging terracotta pots
are melting back into the earth.
After years of residing
in this place, rust colored rims
crumble into fragments, handles
surrender to dust in my hands.
Planters are cracked
by roots and tiny offshoots
seeking space outside to thrive.
Two clay sculptures shaped
into women’s faces hold nests
of small stones and carved birds
in baskets on their heads.
One of the faces is fractured
over the bridge of her nose
and down her cheek. The carrier
on the other is caving in, returning
to the source from which it was made.
