Evening

    Sometimes she's Confucian——

    resolute¹ in privation. . . .

    Each day， more immobile，

    hip² not mending， legs swollen³；

    still she carries her grief

    with a hard steadiness.

    Twelve years uncompanioned，

    there's no point longing⁴ for

    what can't return. This morning，

    she tells me， she found a robin⁵

    hunched⁶ 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."