He carries my soul along his back,
half of my flesh and blood.
He is half of what I am today,
and sadly, what I will become.
He is the sunshine and the rain
my joy, and my pain.
But now he is just my pain,
breaking my heart again and again.
In his eyes I see fire which was mine,
burning on another bushel,
its leaves thriving in flames
and almost consumed.
Without warmth, I am so cold
except for she, who, like a hen
tucks me under her wing
form the bitter frost of neglect.
His hand is a hammer
which pounds the nails
too far into the wood.
His mind is a cauldron for brewing anger
til it strains and overflows,
to the hen and the egg
the rooster’s anger is shown.
An egg, so frail, threatens to crack
But alas, mother hen fights back
fearful as a hawk, graceful as a dove
she spreads her great wings in compassion and love
these feathers of courage pull the egg through,
til she must say the final adieu.
Kelly Curiel
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fragile-35/
