The baby cypress trees
may someday be a wall of green
but now they point
just delicately
at the flight path overhead,
at the slender softening contrails
the last jet left.

Little hen lay young silkie eggs—
at your tender age we find
occasional cream-shelled eggs about
(half-usual size!).

How you like
to scratch a nest
under the bramble hedge
on the sunny side.

Crack a mini egg
and feel a pang—
none of us crave
breaking up
your casual clutch
but a doll’s breakfast
seems cause enough
to celebrate.
To this pleasing end
we steal from you
and give thanks.