Hard stubborn things by Lee Potts

Knowing all about easing soil aside 

        But wanting only water

Tree roots tend toward rivers

        Tip right past what must seem like just more stone

All those hard stubborn things 

That they couldn’t carry, keep, or protect 

        Shards, buckles, rusted blades

        Plates, cups, combs, coins

Once deeply desired, once needed

Once held as tightly as a child’s hand

        Running through streets of dark, dead houses

        Just before an army arrives along with the rain

Then discarded, lost, buried

Forgotten fruits of violent seasons  

        Finally found and teased back into air and light

        With shovels and a series of increasingly tender tools

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