Easter eggs. Literal: sparkling, colourful, kawaii, yet also so chic. I pick up a pack for my cats, try to think of something else to do with them. Store poems? Fortune cookies in colour. Not fortunes. Feelings or portals. Metaphorical: mysterious, the kind that acts as a portal, a clue into something else, something beyond what we can see right now. Albert Einstein said: "Nature conceals her mystery by means of her essential grandeur, not by her cunning." Something like that. An Easter egg is planted: Marvel, Taylor Swift, my mom decades ago, and now me. But I think there’s something about being "careless and spontaneous as the curl of a stem or the kindling of a star"¹. / The colours of spring, how the sky is blue and sharp again to my eyes, but green and welcoming to my skin. / "A bird gags sweetly on the new green deal / as I work my way through ineffable instructions / on how to live this poor and shabby life / as performance. How to pack it, sell it?” (Rachael Allen, GOD COMPLEX) / The buds of every pink cherry blossom. The cells in our bodies. Deep violet faded into lavender on her eyelids. Me at every juncture of failure: "Something broke and something opened.²" An Easter egg: a tiny slightly misshapen ball so “utterly focused and utterly dreamed.³” Something like that.