Hollow

A wooden egg submerged in a sink of jet black paint.
Like a night sky behind a debut of sharp red corners and jazzy orange edges.
Like an inflation of colours, lines-in-motion, seeming to lack emotion.
Rolling, rolling, rolling.
Now left for a quiet interlude in a meager timber display case.

An ancient ersatz of an egg.
Alone or unique in her home.
But suddenly elevated moved by my hands.
Its first time in generations being revealed to this forgotten wilderness, her foreign home.
Burning in the sun’s orchestra, pulled apart by the musicians of light.
Rolling, rolling, rolling.

The ball sighs and stares as shes put back in her case.
Days wither by while the pysanka lies imprisoned in this….. box.
Without a heart of yolk the pysanka lacks a soul.
You can tap and it will echo.
Just a musky wooden egg, robbed of life.

“Fake! mere imitation of novelty!” the voices torture her.
Buried in dust.
Nothing that special.
The pysanka, My Pysanka.