Easter is a celebration of spring, of abundance, of fertility, right? (Even the Resurrection is about rebirth, life after death, springtime concepts all.) The flowers and animals around us are gettin' it on (as far as you can call whatever flowers do "gettin' it on") and we celebrate by thinking about multiplying bunnies and eggs, eggs, eggs.

 Yeah, well, me too. Eggs on the brain. My own, this time. As an over-35-year-old woman, I am wondering whether my little egg baskets have anything left to offer. It's been a few months of trying to create a brother or sister for our son, now, and we had one major disappointment last month. (I was so sure, but alas, Aunt Flo showed up anyway--several days late, I might add. The bitch.)

 If any of you have gone through the trying and waiting, trying and waiting, you know how agonizing it can be. Sure it starts out fun, but soon trying to make love on demand starts to feel like work, and then the interminable waiting to find out whether this month is gonna be THE month...it's hard.

Of course, we are lucky to have one child already. My heart goes out to those who struggle for years, suffer through infertility treatments, keep up the hopes for another month, another, another. And of course, to those who lose what they've put so much care and hope and prayer into.

 So here's to hope, in this time of fertile landscapes, hidden eggs, and cats in heat howling under the house. And here's a little poem I wrote about, well, waiting.

Waiting

Possibilities hover like bubbles
that shatter at a touch.
Despite a drop of blood,
hope persists, glittering like broken glass

among fallen acorns.
They, too, await growth
or decay, whichever comes first.
Maybe next month I’ll hold that spark of light,

glimmering, unbreakable, bloodless.