Spring Triduum, Three.
And through the cracks in the eggshell,
the little dove peeps out:
little by little, its muffled voice
announces itself to the world.
Soon it is out, clumsy and wet.
It moves slowly around.
I hold it on the palm of my hand:
it throbs with new life, warm and soft,
tender like a blossom.
Our hearts ablaze under the midday sun.