Clay Pots

Two clay pots

Full of ash

Each a geode
Broken open
Refracting the light
Revealing a life
Of old family farms
And love in a Nebraskan winter
Of growing old
Chasing chickens from the garden
Of letting me win at four in a row
Of strokes
And falls
Withering flesh dependence

The chickens eat the seeds in the garden

But you still rub lotion on my hands and say
It will make my skin as good as yours
Until the bed you share has one
Then none

The pots break

But all I see is crystal

By: Grace Andrews