Fighting the wind to find the eggs,
the world and animals, for admiration, beg.
“This Easter is a little different,” she said.
On memories of her, I am surely fed.
Hide the pieces of my heart in the trees,
on Grandma’s knees,
under the steps,
in the Spanish moss,
tuck me away in a basket,
or bury me deep in the ground,
where no one will hear the sound,
of my broken-heart-beat.
I’ll give you all the grace in the ocean,
but I know you don’t see me anymore.
You see the taller men who play the drums,
while I sulk in a church corner like an old bread crumb.
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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Analyse this!
Wanna know how to improve your writing? There is a simple, quick, tried and tested method. Tried and tested by who? By me, as it happens, and I can guarantee that it will work for you. I know what I am talking about. Not always, of course, but certainly in this case.
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Comments (1)
The “old bread crumb” line really hits—it’s simple but carries so much weight. I love the photo, seems like she's having fun ✨