“It is the birthday of Robert Frost,” You said over a bowl of soup and I heard it as though Garrison Keillor was sitting there, perhaps because you are both from Minnesota, and then, in that way of yours you added “And I didn’t buy him anything.” We both laughed and then fell silent each working on poetry in our heads tearing bread, spooning soup Frost, like Dickenson, taking me back to my childhood because they were the poets of my elementary classrooms and I loved their words overtly until sometime in college I was told they were passé and of the lesser poets and I felt my smallness of mind but loved them still until in later years they became fashionable once more and I learned anew what I always knew that what I love, I love whether it be poets or jazz or eggs which are bad for you and then good for you again which brings me back to that first poem I ever wrote, in third grade something about a bird on the walk or birches bent by ice and, I image in all my pride, a lesson about being true to my own heart and eating eggs any way. © Jilly March 26, 2017
2 thoughts on “on Birds, Birches, and the Joy of Eating Eggs”
You have captured a wonderful moment in time vividly and led us into the dilemmas of present day. I truly appreciate the struggle of enjoying that which the world would discard. Great writing, Jilly!
Oh, and we were on the same wavelength today!
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With time, we become brave to become true to our hearts ~
Jilly, can you please send me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org? I have a question for you. Thanks.