Russian Egg

We went to a Christmas Market that night.

Fake snow cascaded down from machines,

Because everything is man made these days.

I looked at the stalls as sellers sold their wares,

Marveling at the skills fabricated by man.

Shining baubles and everything in between,

People milling about, shopping for things they don’t need.

I, too, looked around, my cash in hand,

Searching for the perfect item,

With no particular desire in my head.

And that’s when I saw a stall full of worth,

All hand made items, beautiful at first look.

I approached the babushka sitting in a chair,

And pondered over her remarkable wares.

Carved Papa Frosts, and incredible Russian eggs,

All painted delicately, perfectly by hand.

One stood out, more lovely than the rest,

Green as an emerald, depicting my most favorite ballet— The Nutcracker.

Memories flooded forth of attending with my dad,

Of girls in pretty dresses, twirling in a dainty dance.

I purchased the egg immediately,

So happy with my find.

A treasure that will keep,

The memory of him alive.