The Dust of Roots

Moving pots for winter,

a small parade of green

to shelter. This one empty,

just the shape of what had been.

I lifted it, the rim

a rough lip under my thumb.

A fine, red dust bloomed

on my palm, dry earth.

It crumbled, just a bit,

a flake of something baked.

Inside, a paler core,

like old bone.

It held a plant, once.

Now, just the mark

of roots that are gone.

Gritty. Empty.