"At the World's Edge, I Found a Door..."

[psalm_onethirtyone]

Song

Love poems, love poems, I'm all out since
I emptied my market basket for you
A thousand times in the past and filled it up
Again with words like warm eggs.

I ease them out from under the sleepy fussy chickens,
Getting my hands all lost in the softest feathers in
The world before they come out full of these
Smooth round unborn perfect with life love poems.

My Daddy's hens, his best ideas, his savoury dreams
That we crack open into a black skillet
And mix up with cheese and onions like giant
Pearls and ham from a pig whose name I knew.

In the winter the hens dry up because they
Know what a sin it is to bring babies into the cold
Hungry stillness of the hungry snow when the thick hay's
Gone and desperate winter wheat fills up the hungry fields.

Even the sweet soil has the brains to sleep it
Out, these days when nothing grows, and that's why
My basket is empty except for little pieces of straw
And you're welcome to those if they mean something to you.

But when it's winter I like to stop expecting new
Things, and take what summer saved up on down to the
Store, where down there you can buy penny candy and
Grinning, and bicycle back with your pockets all heavy.

Comments

[little-lady-d.livejournal.com]

this makes me smile, a cold-winter-and-candy-and-the-memory-of-eggs sort of smile -- something absent, but not lacking, not lost, and a life no less full.

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

♥

[tomecatti.livejournal.com]

I giggled when the metaphor reached the omelet point ^^;;

Such a beautiful, wistful longing is packed so well into these words. You're brilliant, miss.

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

SCRAMBLED EGGS, sir. Not OMELETTES. <333333 HONESTLY.

Thank you. ♥

[tomecatti.livejournal.com]

I DO NOT EAT EGGS AND WAS TIRED

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

YOU ARE EVIL.

[tomecatti.livejournal.com]

THEY DO NOT TASTE GOOD TO ME

UNLESS THEY ARE HARD-BOILED, NOM NOM NOM

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

EW EW EW.