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
eternity
Poet’s Notes:
Here are two other Easter Egg shape poems to try:
Wheat & Tares 
Thank you, Jake, for sharing your talents. Blessed Easter to you.
Easter blessings to you too, Charlene.
I’ve been thinking of your line ” we survived a war before we were born
again here in this flesh” and wondered how that narrative has impacted the psyches of those of us who grew up with it. It’s sobering to consider the ramifications both good and bad.
I agree with your assessment of how it is sobering to consider both the good and bad ramifications of the Mormon narrative of premortal life and worth. Incidentally, poetry has always been a challenge for me too, especially other people’s. Thank you for sharing your reaction to the line about the war.