Rachel A. Robins

The egg is stark white,
perfectly oval, glowing like a pearl
in the greening grass.
It is frail,
this work of a bird,
a continuation of her life,
hope and promise in the making.

I search for her in the bright sky, the blossoming
trees, but I only hear students
hurrying to class, cars darting in the distance,
an entire world ignorant of her loss.
I look at the egg again, its nest companion
lying nearby, shattered,
life crushed
before it began.

I wonder if the bird will weep,
upon finding an empty nest,
missing the familiar lumps beneath her
breast, the silent incubators of purpose,
mourning when there are no small
gaping mouths to feed,
tongues out, impatiently crying for more.

Soaring now, unfettered from responsibility,
perhaps she will fly further,
savoring the distance, searching for
something to occupy her time, avoiding
sitting in the stillness of
an empty nest.

Sorrowing when
there is no one to
gently push
out, no hesitant wings to watch
unfurl, no satisfaction when her
offspring flies away.

Will the emptiness hurt more
when it is not of her own making?

Softly nudging
the egg nearer to the grass at the
base of the tree,
I hope to delay the inevitable.