Egg

We are in the position of defining myth by the shape of its absence. -Sean Kane, Wisdom of the Mythtellers The bluebird's cold mistimed egg fetched up from the one-legged box after the pair had left for points south & unknown (never, as it turned out, to return) I renested in the half-geode by the windowsill where it gleamed &, months becoming years, seemed about to last forever, grow more consistent with itself, holding its pure blue firmament up over what by now was nothing, till one January day, snow melting to a fast flood, I blew it softly onto my palm so I could hold its cerulean up against new sky, home against home, where it lay weightless & delicate as the Xmas ornament we'd just put away, but when I went to roll it gently back onto its bed, & leave it there, I saw a thread, a crack, another, watched it sink in slowly on itself, shard on shard collapsing from my touch & breath, relaxing into the shape of its absence