This hot and humid morning
late in a southern July
I found a pink plastic Easter egg
lying in the courtyard outside the Parish Hall.
My friend is dying.
I wonder if, when she is gone
her body will be like the egg I found…
jaunty, but tired, perfectly empty.
If she was the little fuchsia clockwork bird
I imagine emerging from the shell,
she would chirp with an Alemani accent
and perch in the highest tree she could find
so she could scout the horizons
seeking, always seeking,
cellophane feathers fluttering,
bright button eyes gleaming in the sun…
eager, so eager
for the freedom and joy
new experiences can bring.
The shell is just what is left behind,
having served its temporary purpose
(c) RCGA 2013