I walked down the street
Yesterday morning,
On the way to a friend’s house.

It was early.
Stuck in that blue time
Between night and day.

It was silent.
The natural kind,
Laced with bird song and the occasional cricket,
But still silent.

I looked down,
And noticed broken egg shells
Lying on the ground.

I took in their cream color,
And jagged edges,
And felt deep sadness.

Broken eggshells.
Little birds stolen from the nest
By reaper’s tooth and claw.

But sadness was fleeting,
As I realized that eggshells
Were not just death’s stamp.

Broken eggshells.
Little birds freed from solid walls
To enter the world.

Broken eggshells.
Little birds freed to fly,
Freed to trust new wings,
And winds through space.

I looked down,
And saw metaphor.
Saw an embodiment of the phrase,
Glass half empty or half full.
Choose how to experience life.
Choose to see hope and freedom,
Or despair and restraint.
Choose how to interpret broken eggshells,
On the street,
On a blue morning,
Filled with silence.