Glass Bones

The iron ribs are rusted orange, A cage where ferns have broken through The fragile skin of shattered panes, Breathing dampness into the morning chill.

Here, the vines remember the hands That coaxed them upward from the soil, Though the clay pots are now cracked and dry, Spilling dust onto the mossy floor.

No gardener returns to prune the wild, Yet the wild grows fierce and beautiful, Reclaiming the geometry of glass With the slow, green patience of the earth.