Sometimes she's Confucian——
resolute in privation. . . .
Each day， more immobile，
hip not mending， legs swollen；
still she carries her grief
with a hard steadiness.
Twelve years uncompanioned，
there's no point longing for
what can't return. This morning，
she tells me， she found a robin
hunched in the damp dirt
by the blossoming white azalea.
Still there at noon——
she went out in the yard
with her 4-pronged metal cane——
it appeared to be dying.
Tonight， when she looked again，
the bird had disappeared and
in its place， under the bush，
was a tiny egg——
"Beautiful robin's-egg blue"——
she carried carefully indoors.
"Are you keeping it warm？"
I ask——what am I thinking？——
And she： "Gail， I don't want
a bird， I want a blue egg."