Yesterday, a new experience:
a painting made me cry.
Three vibrant, precious blue eggs
surrounded by a nest of chaos,
grey, brown, jagged.

My instinct to protect those little eggs
because I always find them on the ground in the summer,
broken,
alone.

Art doesn’t usually make me cry (or want to write poetry)
but lately it’s all right there at the surface:
joy, sorrow, fear, love.

Sometimes I think it’s too much to be a person,
but there it is: the urge to protect those little eggs.

“Miracles” the label told me, but I already knew that.