This morning,
I cradled empty eggshells
in the palm of my hand
where they rested:
smooth
fragile
broken.
I touched one of the points
of their jagged edges
and then
lay them gently
on a soft
white
kitchen
towel.
Midwinter sun
filtered through clouds—
through windowpanes streaked by rain—
shed muted light
on silent mourning.
* * * * *
Image and poem by Ann Kroeker
Julie says
Eggshells — a graphic reminder of how fragile we all are.
annkroeker says
Julie, yes, you feel it with me.
Kimberly says
Mourning with you, Ann.
annkroeker says
Across the miles, even across an ocean, we are tied and tangled together by the shock….
Linda Bannister says
Simply beautiful Ann. So evocative of our complex feelings today.
annkroeker says
Linda, thank you. I remembered L.L. Barkat writing in response to the tragedy in Japan…she turned to poetry when prose struggled. http://www.thehighcalling.org/culture/japan-and-our-children-love
Megan Willome says
A poem, Ann! And a good one.
P.S. You crack eggs like I do.
annkroeker says
Do you remember this post L.L. Barkat wrote for The High Calling? http://www.thehighcalling.org/9918/do-the-job-your-way
annkroeker says
(And thank you…after being told other things about my poetry, this is a welcome affirmation)
L.L. Barkat says
I love this poem. Its empty places, structurally, echo the emptiness of the stark language, which echoes the the meaning of the words themselves.
Write more poetry, Ann? Please? 🙂
annkroeker says
I’m a bit shy, you know. I need people like you to model and inspire it, and to point out what works (like you just did).
Janis@Open My Ears Lord says
Beautiful, Ann. Very poignant.
Janis
annkroeker says
Thank you for joining me here, in this quiet space.
laura says
Beautiful, Ann. Finding myself empty of words and grateful for yours.
Hazel Moon says
Our lives are but a vapor – so fragil!
Loved this one!
annkroeker says
James 4:14. Hazel, I gasp to realize I just read that two days ago.
annkroeker says
I think I like this poem in present tense better:
This morning,
I cradle empty eggshells
in the palm of my hand
where they rest:
smooth
fragile
broken.
I touch one of the points
of their jagged edges
and then
lay them gently
on a soft
white
kitchen
towel.
Midwinter sun
filtered through clouds—
through windowpanes streaked by rain—
sheds muted light
on silent mourning.