Creative, Curious, Christian
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
Blogger: Pursuing a Christ-centered, creative, curious, slightly quirky, slow-down life and sharing it with you, post after post. (Home of Food on Fridays).
Author: Not So Fast: Slow-Down Solutions for Frenzied Families
Content Editor: The High Calling (Family/Parenting)
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ann kroeker. curator. (read it, liked it)
Eggshells — a graphic reminder of how fragile we all are.
Julie, yes, you feel it with me.
Mourning with you, Ann.
Across the miles, even across an ocean, we are tied and tangled together by the shock….
Simply beautiful Ann. So evocative of our complex feelings today.
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
A poem, Ann! And a good one.
P.S. You crack eggs like I do.
Do you remember this post L.L. Barkat wrote for The High Calling? http://www.thehighcalling.org/9918/do-the-job-your-way
(And thank you…after being told other things about my poetry, this is a welcome affirmation)
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?
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).
Beautiful, Ann. Very poignant.
Janis
Thank you for joining me here, in this quiet space.
Beautiful, Ann. Finding myself empty of words and grateful for yours.
Our lives are but a vapor – so fragil!
Loved this one!
James 4:14. Hazel, I gasp to realize I just read that two days ago.
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.