We are gatherers,
the ones who pick up sticks and stones
and old wasp’s nests fallen by the door of the barn,
walnuts with holes that look like eyes of owls,
bits of shells not whole but lovely in their brokenness,
we are the ones who bring home empty eggs of birds and place them on a small glass shelf
to keep for what? How long?
It matters not.
What matters is the gathering, the pockets filled with remnants
of a day evaporated, the traces of certain memory, a lingering smell,
a smile that came with the shell.

A poem by Nina Bagley

Jenna & DARLINGS

Family spring SESSION