you and I
are spry old spirits
right now; we survived
a war before we were born
again here in this flesh, so we
still feel the heat of it, maybe, as it
simmers off our spirits—a tremulous
aura our memories cannot enunciate
permeating the natal brittleness like
oxygen through an egg shell—still,
small, voice-like but soundless,
telling us we are olden folk,
abiding just another day
shielded from cold

Poet’s Notes:

Here are two other Easter Egg shape poems to try:

An Easter Emergence

The Fate of Easter Eggs