Gnomes tend to phoenix eggs
that they have carefully shaped,
papier-mâchéd from the ashes.

They whisper stories
with soft, hot breath,
speaking of bountiful gardens,
flowers blooming in sun.

Their words are like the rustling of wings,
giving the gift of visualization
to those too tired to begin
again, just yet.

The voices softly crooning
let the eggs pretend
that their parents are not themselves,

and tell them that there will be comfort
when they finally crack open
give in to being again.