By Lisa Huddleston

New dreams drop like kildy eggs

Perching at edges of driveways

And hiding among their dusty gravel imposter twins

Tires unknowingly pass over and around

These stony seeds of hope

Never seeing their nestless beds

And occasionally crushing all hope of life

But sometimes, a flapping, falsely broken wing detours that random death

And tiny dreams mature to peep and run to the cover of the verdant world of grass