Split Eggs

Fighting the wind to find the eggs,

the world and animals, for admiration, beg.

“This Easter is a little different,” she said.

On memories of her, I am surely fed.

Hide the pieces of my heart in the trees,

on Grandma’s knees,

under the steps,

in the Spanish moss,

tuck me away in a basket,

or bury me deep in the ground,

where no one will hear the sound,

of my broken-heart-beat.

I’ll give you all the grace in the ocean,

but I know you don’t see me anymore.

You see the taller men who play the drums,

while I sulk in a church corner like an old bread crumb.