We spy on her constantly, lest she fly
and this too falls apart, this omen of sorts
where meanings of home and growth crystallise
in this strange space between landing and goodbye
amidst the dire pandemic news reports
and what a dove and her egg can symbolise.
The mundane can be charged with so much hope.
She clutches at her straws as I clutch at mine
and we’re both doing what needs to be done;
setting up a home is also dismantling
another in some other space and time,
till the final stop is given, or won
at the very end of all the travelling.
But for now the egg’s a straw and helps to cope.