Gatherers

We are gatherers,

the ones who pick up sticks and stones

and old wasp’s nests fallen by the

door of the barn,

walnuts with holes that look like

eyes of owls,

bits of shells not whole but lovely

in their brokeness,

we are the ones who bring home

empty eggs of birds

and place them on a small glass shelf

to keep for what? How long?

It matters not. What matters

Is the gathering,

the pockets filled with remnants

of a day evaporated, the traces of

certain memory, a lingering smell,

a smile that came with the shell.

~ Nina Bagley