Fragile (a poem)

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

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17 thoughts on “Fragile (a poem)”

  1. 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? 🙂

    1. 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).

  2. 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.

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Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach

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