Everywhere, new is hatching.
All over the lawn and in the bushes,
those brightly colored plastic eggs
are filled with chocolate and God,
for the children to find. I break
an egg in a bowl, stir it with a fork,
cook it in a pan. It changes
from wet to firm, and where the liquid
dissolves to, I do not know--perhaps
it's hovering with all the other invisible
things that we regularly discard,
only remembering them
when it rains or we suffer.
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