blue, green or white,
large, medium and small,
double-yolkers, pullet eggs,
the occasional surprising shell-less wonders
to surprise the unwary hand gathering without looking,
and miniature mistakes, curiosities laid at the end of an old girl’s fertility,
It’s simple oval perfection, smooth and cool, anonymous, delights my eyes
and leaves open the door to the morning’s question of breakfast preparation:
Fried? Boiled? Scrambled? Poached? Coddled? Nogged? Omelet? Quiche? Nested?
Possibilities await as I contemplate the red egg basket on a rainy April morning.