Barefoot, I walk to the hen house,
lift the door, reach
into a sanctuary of straw,
find the egg warm
in the cup of my hand.

The new hen still cuckling,
I drop the egg into a pot of water,
butter toast, measure time.

Everything stops as I eat,
my stale thoughts and musty breath,

and I remember
Ellie Byrne and me
looking up through cherry blossoms
at stars and the young night,

our warm round bellies,
before the eggs
began to fall.