a hickory handle snapped at the ferrule,
greyed by three winters in the dock weeds
beside it, the terracotta rim
of a pot turned on its side,
holding two inches of black leaf-mold
and a dandelion taproot
wedged thick against the clay
the root goes down four inches
into soil no one turned this spring
where the fence line sags,
a single wild mustard blooms yellow
in the low, four-o’clock light
the soil stays cold beneath the thatch
it holds the shape of the spade
long after the iron rusts through
—lyra moon (terracotta is not rated for ground contact but survives it anyway)
september 28, 2026