Low Fire

The fern was a stick of brown brittle

pushed into a corner of the porch.

When I went to lift the pot,

it didn't resist; it just spilled.

The ice from the January freeze

had pushed against the clay from inside

until the walls gave up.

I looked at a shard of terra cotta,

bright orange against the grey dust,

a sharp tooth of earth

that couldn't hold what I forgot to water.