Crown of Eggshells

In the myth of me

I am birds, in flight,

in reverse.

And I dream 

portentously

that I am winter 

in full bloom.

Ballads of me

are discordant:

they are whale song 

under a moon, 

full at noon.

There are tales of me

where I am 

the hanged man, 

strung up and upside down.

I have questions 

that are clenched fists

but the answers 

are just stones.

I forget my own name

in this saga of mine.

In this story the heroine dies

then learns to live again -

told end to start,

she exists in twilight, 

crown of eggshell, 

magnificent

and mundane.

Image from pixabay.