The spring your son was born
I found upon our stone steps
the shell of a robin’s egg perfectly formed.
I placed it in the shadowy lines of my palm:
Not a single crack! I stood there decoding
the secret a symbol keeps. Soon after,
we awoke to shrill peeps of baby birds
nestled in our bedroom’s eaves.
For some reason, I imagined the mother who grieves
her lost embryo as she feeds the newly born.
Here on Chetwynd the steps of homes are worn
by those who lost eggs and those lucky enough to find one.
All the eaves on all the houses hold shadow as well as sun.
But oh, to be lifted from the dark hand of dusk
lengthening on the stoop. To be found as I was
by your own mother, as mothers can be by children,
as children often are by one another.
Best of all perhaps, to tender the fallen,
empty shell, to imagine, to believe, to fortell
another’s lifeline becoming a living filament;
to weave from mud and dry, broken sticks
a holy cradle. And with the heat of one’s hope
to devotedly sit, to wait for as long as it takes
until the cries of hunger bring us, once again, awake.