Behold the Egg

Brown, ivory,

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.

 

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
This entry was posted in Appalachian, home, short poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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