Fragile spheres laid out

for what will be, will be.

They are like Baby Moses

who floats down the river

on an altar bed of reeds.

Jochebed turns away as

the cradle goes beyond the Earth’s curve.

“What have I done?”

she asks as we all do.

“He will drown.”

“He will lead us all to freedom.”

Every day the eggs are in peril

in their own reed bed.

The feral, the biting wind,

the thoughtless rubber tread.

Most days they could be extinguished.

But no.

Wings and soft feather belly, watchful eyes,

keep each one so it can grow,

a tiny emergence like a rose in winter sand.

Their little hearts beat

warming through ice and malice.

This love extends history.

This love prevents untimely end.

It brings the four horsemen,

swords poised up in wrath,

to turn away from the apocalypse,

and watch the small eggs hatch.