Dawn Schout
Eggshells
An Easter egg is dropped
off at my doorstep, wrapped in white
tissue paper, marked fragile,
my last birthday gift from a family I lost
when he said goodbye.
I hold it lightly, everything inside gone,
so easy to break, bright blue pressed
against my fingers.
Examine its painted beauty—
butterflies with wings spread,
a budding tree, red
barn with a white horse.
The rider is gone,
the horse unsure of what to do
with her freedom.
Left alone,
the egg gets knocked
off the counter, kicked down the stairs.
I pick up the pieces,
hold on to brokenness.
Dawn Schout's poetry has appeared in more than 30 publications, including Main Street Rag, Poetry Quarterly, Red River Review, Sleet Magazine, and Tipton Poetry Journal. She is an assistant editor for Fogged Clarity and lives near Lake Michigan.