Broken Ring

Clearing weeds from the back fence line,

my trowel hit something hard, a sign.

Pulled it out, rough and warm,

a shard against the coming storm.

Sun-baked clay, a broken thing,

a curve that might have been a ring.

This terra cotta, dry and old,

a story that will not unfold.

A piece of pot, lost in the dirt,

a tiny sting, a subtle hurt.