Unwritten

I’ve never written anything that makes me feel
as strongly as something I’ve yet to write.
Like a killdeer on the clutch
Waiting for the eggshells to shatter,
Hoping to see the soft and downy things,
excited for their childish chatter,
I’ll sit.
And wait.
Leave creation up to fate-
Maybe it’s not my fault
When the waiting goes too long,
when the shells were too thick and strong,
Maybe it’s not my fault.

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