A.B. Heys

Peeling an Egg

I push my thumb under the shell -
more often than not my luck fails me,
tiny fragments nick and must be picked at with patience,
triangular flecks removed bit by individual bit.
Or the shell holds tight to its white,
pulling away its valuable content as it goes,
the end result misshapen and torn.
But then sometimes my luck is in.
I catch the thin skin that sits
below the brittle case of the egg,
large sections pull away leaving the smooth
gleaming rubber of a hard-boiled gem.

Where the horses gather in a storm

When you have lived here for a year
you will feel where the last of the sun lingers,
where the ice patches itself on the back road,
where the snow drifts, when the wind is from the south west.
You will see where the bulbs are hidden,
shoots bursting from the ground, planted by the people before.
You will learn which plants thrive,
which die and which are resurrected,
and when the storm rises up
you will see where the horses gather.

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