Unravelling and weaving, sometimes simultaneously

Pink Plastic Easter Egg

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

after all.

(c) RCGA 2013



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