She sits
Having patiently collected
and woven a space for growth,
for new life
Eight of them encased by delicate shells seemingly so fragile
but made just as they should be.
She longs to see the change.
A sudden nudge of her powerful beak could quickly,
easily prize open each life-filled casket
But she sits.
What a gift are those that live not to display their power to me,
but to show me my own
Not to fix, force or rush me into change or out of pain
But to sit through the frost and the peeping light of spring
Gently checking in,
Their affirming presence
incubating my worth.
- Ange Disbury, 2022 -
