A Skeleton of Pottery

Splintered gold carpets the ground at her naked feet. Stars spat from skies above crashing down to carve out craters in the earth, barren. She crunches memories once perfect between her toes - the past squelching-squashing in meadows bogged with rain and night-time tears. His ashes, once held in an urn, float now over a field, let out to pasture. The vase cracked by her own hand, a widowed hand grieving. It is said she walks under the moon searching for those broken pieces. Grasping at grass. Anything to meld his mosaic back together, her palms the kiln moulding him into a frame, a skeleton of pottery.