Through the Broken Ground

Through the Broken Ground

In a quiet corner of the lot,
the excavator’s bucket rests—
a rusted jaw, still open,
as if mid-thought.

Once it tore through earth,
heaved and hauled,
but now it only holds
a shallow pool of rain.

At first, the surface trembles—
ripples from passing wind—
but slowly, as the air stills,
a reflection emerges:
branches, clouds,
a hint of green.

There is a kind of digging
we do not choose—
the messy, human work
of turning over what was buried,
what resists the light.

Some things gleam when uncovered—
understanding, forgiveness—
while others cling,
dark and heavy,
unwilling to rise.

Excavation isn’t elegant.
It’s rust and noise,
steel on stone,
the ache of letting go
what was never meant to last.

And yet,
in the stillness that follows,
when the water clears again,
growth begins to gather—
small, persistent,
green as mercy—
the quiet proof
that even what is torn open
can bloom again.