Spring finds new stones forced into the world,
children of winter’s long hidden labors.
Not even keen ermine sensed their coming
under that crystalline surface.
But they were there awaiting shifts,
pressures, erosions to bring them out of hiding,
into the leveled field to trip up horse and plow.
The only way to light they take is tearing.
Seeing fields now marred and broken,
farmers root them out, preserving them for walls
when they should be buried back.
Summer brings even plots that welcome seed,
but crops will wilt, and snow will hide
the next generation of stones.
Amy Kotthaus is a writer, translator, painter, and photographer. Her poetry has been published in Ink in Thirds, Yellow Chair Review, and Section 8. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Ground Fresh Thursday, Crab Fat Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Digging Through the Fat. She currently lives in Maine with her husband and children.