They say no two blades of grass are alike,
but is that true for eggs?
See how, once you look awhile,
each egg scarcely resembles its twin…
There are patterns in the brown,
striations in the white,
stories in all.
Yes, even in that one.
Oh, and look how so sweetly
the eggs wait
in little nests scooped
from the white porcelain platter
atop Grandmother’s kitchen table.
Nicked and scratched, wobbling and wrinkled,
the table’s edge is perfect, too, for cracking eggs.
But don’t forget, please, to kiss
in welcome the wee drenched head
of the subtle, sliver-boned chick
summoned into your hands
from its crypt of shell
like a sprout through a seed.
Now too let’s listen.
Such a happy omen and marvel – how
from each chick’s beak grow tendrils
of song in infinite keys
woven snug round us
while we – you, I and he –
mind the pots on the stove
and spill not one note
of this immaculate fugue
we call soup.
Copyright © 2013 Jenine Baines
To find more of Jenine’s poems, writings, and musings, please visit MichaelWhoKnew.com.