American Life in Poetry, Column 030

by Ted Kooser, U. S. Poet Laureate

Naomi Shihab Nye lives in San Antonio, Texas. Here she perfectly captures a moment in childhood that nearly all of us may remember: being too small for the games the big kids were playing, and fastening tightly upon some little thing of our own.

Boy and Egg

Every few minutes, he wants 
to march the trail of flattened rye grass 
back to the house of muttering 
hens. He too could make 
a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh 
it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it 
to his ear while the other children 
laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him, 
so little yet, too forgetful in games, 
ready to cry if the ball brushed him, 
riveted to the secret of birds 
caught up inside his fist, 
not ready to give it over 
to the refrigerator 
or the rest of the day.

Reprinted from “Fuel,” published by BOA Editions by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 1998 by Naomi Shihab Nye, whose most recent book is “A Maze Me” Harper Collins/Greenwillow, 2004. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.