A Hipsters Literary Response To :Boy and Egg: By Naomi Shihab Nye

[This is The Poem]

Boy and Egg

Every few minutes, he wants
to march the trail of flattened rye grass
back to the house of muttering
hens. He too could make
a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh
it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it
to his ear while the other children
laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him,
so little yet, too forgetful in games,
ready to cry if the ball brushed him,
riveted to the secret of birds
caught up inside his fist,
not ready to give it over
to the refrigerator
or the rest of the day.

[My Response]

The girl and her egg

Here I stand, seventeen going on eighteen, and facing my future. My little corner of the universe flutters with the wind. I am so small. I am merely the punctuation of one sentence, scribbled on a paper town, in a book that no ones read. I stretch myself, trying to fill the cracks of this Earth, but the abyss simply laughs. "Silly little girl" it mocks "Do you really think you can fill the shoes of significance?" I am young again, a baby whispering heartaches to her dolls. I cry out, wishing to be held again. Hoping to find comfort. All that I've loved crumbles to sand in my hands and begins to slip through my fingertips. I am terrified and my heart timidly calls out, afraid to disturb the silence. So where do I turn? What is the egg I softly cling to? I find peace in my words and solace in my songs. I sing out through my tears. Songs forgotten as soon as they leave my lips, send their melodies out to wrap around and hold me. These are the secrets that hide in my heart. They fall like the metaphorical tree in the forest, when no one is around to hear.