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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