Easter Sunday
Held a different meaning,
This year. Especially
Since the fifteen first-fuzzy chicks,
Held in our garage, for a 4-H’s project sake,
Were four weeks older, bursting their
Large-then birth-box, heat lamp included.

I wrote a poem on chickens
I’d observed, four years ago, now,
Rewind always seems more futile
The second time around, but, you have to
Rally, give the younger the older’s essence,
If that is the way it goes, where you live, and love.

Circumstances circumvent intentions.
The chicks, tiny fluff balls when we were
Entrusted their lives, had definitely outgrown
Their ‘Box’. The red radiance of the heat lamp-
Colored the days that passed. Because, they were
In the garage, and, we didn’t go out there, much,
Anymore, except when I reminded them to
Check the chicks. I’m so sick of this shit, the
Reminding, I mean. And, the chicken shit.

Okay, so the frame went up, Saturday,
Ten foot by four by four for height,
Designed, and constructed, by my husband,
Built by three, in varying degrees, with me,
Occasionally supervising. It took about six
Hours, z-day to chick’s release.

But, when we did, later that afternoon,
Release them, I mean, from their box,
They were scared, knew nothing about
Leg-space. They flocked together within
A different boxed freedom, it was sad, not
Surprising, but, sad. Because, as I’ve seen before,
I cannot view nature without visualizing Humanity.

So, on ‘Easter Sunday’, we, my family, freed
Fifteen pre-chickens from the box we put them in,
To assure their survival, to sell them for worth’s profit,
in the end. And, if the same times us,
No One exists. I had to finish this write, tonight,

Which was Today.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 4/9/07