My sister

found some crumpled blue egg shells,

their skin peeled and wasted

yolk still wet and dripping.

They were beautiful

breathtaking,

a miracle.

They had never lived.

Was it possible to die

before you were born?

To die inside your mind

to never experience life

or joy

or the beauty of a sunset?

The wonderful freedom of outstretched wings,

the gentle tickle of breeze ruffling your hair,

the feeling you get before you fall asleep

when you truly appreciate life?

I took these egg shells

but quickly gave them back.

I wanted to lay them between the crevice

of the two thick oak roots

and scatter some leaves

of crimson and burnt copper

and wish it well.

But I didn’t

because had they even lived?

Did they have enough life in them to die?

or did were their minds simply wiped of all thought

and floated into obliviation?

I turned away.

A few days later

we found another nest full of blue eggs

these eggs were unbroken

alive

whole

their shells the light blue of the sea

when the water washes up on amid sand and foam

dotted with speckles.

I smiled

knowing that these birds

would make it

as always

life goes on

Always.