They loved those golden eggs,
that farmer and his wife,
loved how they glittered in the sun
as if they were sun itself.
They loved the new clothes,
the new barn, the new sharp knives
they could buy with those daily golden eggs.
They loved the great luck of not needing
to work so hard,
loved how those eggs changed the way others
thought of them. Loved the way
it changed the way
they thought of themselves.
But I, I loved the goose,
loved the golden cluck of her,
how it glittered in my ears
when she called to me.
I loved the sparkling soul of her,
how she gave and gave of herself every day.
How she moved through the barnyard
same as any of the rest of us who laid eggs
with ordinary albumin, ordinary yolks.
And her ordinary heart, and her ordinary
guts, I loved, those, too.
After she died, the farmer and his wife
were left with nothing but shame.
But she left me her treasure—
how it glitters through my tears.
Now that she is nowhere, she is everywhere.
her magic more real than ever.
Everything that shines
reminds me of her.