Low Fire

I wanted the porch to look like a place

where a person might actually want to stay.

I bought the rosemary in the terra cotta pot,

but I’m clumsy when the sun starts to go down.

The pot hit the concrete and opened up

into three perfect, curved orange blades.

I knelt in the dirt, trying to scoop the dry earth

back into the hollow of the biggest shard.

The orange dust is ground into my cuticles now.

It’s a stain that doesn't want to leave.