The Egg

 

 

Pysanky eggs

The egg, elliptical, luminous, whole,
separate, indivisible, complete,
nexus of life, invisible, unspoken,
unnameable ancestral pearl of power,
chosen one: you are my pride, my treasure.
I nurture and guard you with all my life,
a green dragon whose jewel lies hidden
in the humming recesses of her dark-red cave.
I share you with the mammals, and the fish too,
the birds, amphibians, insects, snakes:
our common inheritance, our common being.
All of us, whether we fly or swim,
trot, slither or leap beyond our height,
we all love you the same, and commend you
with lifetimes of attention and lavished care.
There are others, too, ferns and firs,
and maybe fruits, too, our cousins
guarded within the muscled trunks
of our rooted green sisters who grow in the Earth.
There they pull from the black nutrition
the crystals of power, the amino molecules,
fuel from which you radiate light
in fruit, in flower, in ovule, in shell.
I feel you well, with every moon,
through thirteen moons in every year.
You arise and make yourself plain,
crown jewel in the parade of our homeland,
flowering, intoxicating, odoriferous, fecund,
temple priestess of life everlasting
in burgundy velvet, concealing and beckoning.
It is easy, and not easy, to court you, egg,
and find you whole, enthroned in all life,
at once at the center and imminent in all things.
It is easy, and yet to properly seek you,
one must have peace, and presence, and life,
abundant life, and love without question
that leaps into the future, many times ones own height.
I bought a dozen of you today,
to boil you and color you, an essence, a symbol,
a ritual item more real than words
and you’re everywhere, among baskets and bunnies,
colored and white, foam and fluff,
and children’s hands under the bushes.
It is Eostar, your long-ago day
when Russian mothers baked you into bread,
and Ukrainian mothers painted you for hours,
and my own ancestors walked for miles
to gather you one by one from afar,
all of us looking to the reborn world,
the flyers, the creepers, the unfathomable sea-swimmers.
These eggs are ours, our hours, our years,
the perfect pearls of our lives.

Annelinde Metzner
March 19, 1989

       My German family had many deep memories of gathering and dying eggs at Easter.  In the Ukraine there is an ancient tradition of Pysanka, engraving eggs with a wax resist method as protective charms for the house or to bring the blessing of the Sun. 

The People Could Fly

 

 

Alvin Ailey II Dancers

How the young dancers lift arms,
that curve, that precision,
as if all were one bird, about to fly.
"The People Could Fly." (*)
The young Ailey dancers
study the iconic postures,
the women's wide skirts, the big fans,
the exuberant setting of the old, old hymns.
"Didn't My Lord Deliver Daniel?"
hatred and white supremacy running rampant,
then and now.
"Going Home to Be With God."
Out in the street, I fight back tears,
for the wonder of it all,
for the moment of sisterhood,
("don't stand near me or we'll both be crying...")
for the children somehow knowing:
diversity, equity and inclusion is the pinnacle,
the best of us all. 

Annelinde Metzner

February 21, 2026

* The People Could Fly: American Black Folktales is a 1985 collection of twenty-four folktales retold by Virginia Hamilton and illustrated by Leo and Diane Dillon. They encompass animal tales (including tricksters), fairy tales, supernatural tales, and tales of the enslaved Africans (including slave narratives).  

 

 

The People Could Fly (Random House, 1985)

 

Ailey II dancers in "Revelations"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

Singing at St. John's

 

South Asheville Cemetery   Photo by Patty Levesque

The Elder Choir sang the old songs, the treasured phrases,
the melodies sung and sung again, familiar as old shoes,
the elders in small rows filling in the harmony with ease,
opening hearts and letting song arise.
“How did you feel when you come out the wilderness?”
Each offers the song most beloved,
and Deacon Love at last is begged
to come forward with his favorite, “Travelin’ Shoes.”
He rises, ninety-two years old, with a little help from his wife,
sets his muscles ready,
and grins at the audience: “It’s OK to dance in church.”
His travelin’ shoes take off, up and down the aisle,
as amazed at himself as we are of him,
with his arms spread wide, ready to fly,
one more day on this Earth, singing, praising,
one more day of dancing.
And all at once, the elders from beyond,
from the hills and woods of mottled headstones nearby,
from out of the briars of the Asheville Colored Cemetery,
from the glorious heavens, they come with their starry crowns.
“No more weepin’ and a-wailin’.”
They sing with us too, the ancient ones,
those buried enslaved, in pain and hard labor,
they sing with us in glory.
“Soon I will be done with the troubles of the world,
troubles of the world, troubles of the world...”

all of us going home to be with God.

Annelinde Metzner
March 6, 2014



In 2014 a wonderful singing was organized by Cathy Riley and Olivia Metz at St. John "A" Baptist Church in Asheville, adjacent to the historic Southside Cemetery.  The moving old spirituals of the Elder Choir graced us with their power and beauty.  The cemetery is sacred ground, many buried unnamed, but much loved and honored.

Gravestones    photo by Patty Levesque

St. John "A" Baptist Church   photo by Marilyn Ferikes

Photo by Marilyn Ferikes

Holle Makes the Snow

 

A surprise snow!  Just cold enough.
Holle's laughter tinkles from the heavens
and the birds answer with their joy.
I am transfixed, enchanted,
my head tilting, my eyes softening.
I step outside to let the flakes
fall on my face and shoulders,
awakening my being with their icy touch.
Each flake is a blessing!
Holle makes the flakes bigger,
shaking, shaking Her featherbed,
looking for faces turning up
to hear Her laugh.
She shakes harder, more snow falls, and more!
The air is white with snow. Holle cackles with glee!
The world is blessed, purified,
leaf and bark, feathers and skin,
just for being,
just for our laughter and joy.

Annelinde Metzner
Black Mountain
January 31, 2020

Beautiful snow at my house

 Our January 31st surprise snow.  Thanks, Jude Lally, for the video!  It captures the surprise and the beauty.













 

Sing, sing

 

 

Sing,  sing
        the fabulous weave
the way you were sung,
        calcium for your bones.
Early and late you pulled it in,
        the Pleiades,  the plastic,
        the parts of the woven self.
Now sing!
Sing, sing
       alas, quiet descends like doom,
       joy forgotten,  a density in mind.
Somewhere a grief,
       that we’ve come to this
but sing!   You know the song,
       the fabulous weave.
You are the song.
Just sing! 

 

Annelinde Metzner

December 29, 1999

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 (Snow video by Jude Lally)