OF SPECKLED EGGS, ICELAND
The postcard says there
are "no two alike."
They look like maps, where all the water's green
Or white, the continents in brown or black;
Or Easter egg Descartes's who've learned to mean.
They're eggs to please psychiatrists as well,
Who in their surfaces could find a hell,
Or childhoods lost in ink, or broken up,
Picasso's tea leaves rescued from a cup.
This card, though, leaves the best part in the shade,
Like love made tangible before it's made.
Pistachio ice cream cones, they're not oval,
Deposited on hillsides from upheaval.
Insides sucked out, arranged in a display,
They're art with something intimate to say.
© by Kim Bridgford