The Egg

I awoke dreamless; I couldn't sleep. For hours I tossed and turned. Three AM. Three-thirty, four. Got water, went to the bathroom. Nothing helped. So I wrote the second part to this egg poem. I wrote the original one awhile ago. I didn't even know it had a second part.


Egg No. 1

How delicate
how human
to grasp an egg without crushing.

How narrow the window
of force to exert.
How fragile the shell.

How precious.


These frightened fingers do not know
how to reach out and touch.

Like a panicked child's
they clutch, crush,
and the precious yolk
drips
between - slips
to the earth.

Ghosts of flight.



Egg No. 2
Take it, child. Beloved.

Gently
gently now.
Try it once more.

Kiss these trembling hands.
Dry the hot tears.
Quiet the storm.

Here, feel its form: the shell - smooth, curved.
Touch it. Still warm.
Take it. Try it once more.

These timid fingers reach out.

How defiant
how human
to reach out and touch once more.


Anyway I waited until morning to post it to be sure it actually made sense (I have to be wary of things that seem insightful or funny in that state between dreaming and wakefulness. Like the time I dreamt about a "hilarious" joke that I wanted to tell my friend. I never saw the friend in the dream, but I did awaken in the middle of the night and write the joke down so I wouldn't forget it the next time I saw him. I sent him an email about it when I awoke, but, needless to say, he did not think it was very funny.)