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The Stone Egg

Birds without eggs
will sit on stones
to cool passion.
I will hold no rock
to my burning breast.
Lonely pigeons, go grumble
over your nest of pebbles.
I will wait for a new season,
another clutch, no illusion
to rise above subtle tyrannies
for the long suffering.

Poems reprinted with permission of Norbert Blei, literary executor for Frances May. This poem appeared in The Poets’ Cat (Fireweed Press, 1990).