Click on the orange play tab to hear this poem, or read it for yourself below.
Egg
I hold a feast of eggs
In my cupped hands
All shades of cream and brown
Each one is oval,
Yet the feel is round.
Egg is chicken’s praise song
For the day,
For feathered sisterhood,
For space to scratch and lay.
An entire world made new each day
Small enough to hold
Yet swollen with rightness,
Like a seed
Of chicken soul.
Truly, I feed more than body
With this food.
How nice to receive another of your wonderful poems. It has been awhile. My life is in great change…which seems to be the state of the world. Hope all is well with you. hugs, pat
Ahhh, yes! My new goal is to be able to continue to post even when in the middle of such changes!
Angel blessings,
Alix