Broken terra cotta

The pot’s cracked rim cuts cold into my skin,

rough edges sharper than I expected.

Terra cotta, brittle with age,

a shell of sun-baked earth broken apart.

Flakes fall like dry leaves from its wound,

a slow crumble, a quiet surrender

to the slow erosion of time and touch.

I hold it, broken but still warm,

a relic pressed with all its scars.

Fragile, like everything we try to keep whole,

but sometimes can’t.