After Long Illness by Ellen Bass
My wife calls. She left the eggs
she’d gathered in a small tin pail
and would I bring them in
so the dog doesn’t eat them. Or maybe
he already has. They’re by the shed
where we’re trying to trap the rat
or maybe by the greenhouse.
I walk out in my robe and slippers, crushing
some mint which rewards me
with its sharp identity. And there
is the pail by the coop.
And there are two eggs, cold and whole
with a fleck of wood shaving stuck to one,
as though a child had just begun
to decorate it, maybe making a horse
with a tiny fetlock. Art by Michele Dangelo
Recommended listening: Aap ki yaad aati rahi - Chhaya Ganguli
Third of May / Ōdaigahara - Fleet Foxes
Links of the Day: What I learned from 2,000 obituaries | Lux Narayan Patterns From Daily Life Darkened Cities The True Faces of America: Rare 100 Year-Old Portraits Of New York Immigrants