I wasn’t sure
what I’d be writing about, too many
poems are constructing in my head.
Linked and looped and strewn about.
They haven’t bled enough to be let out.

I’ve been thinking
about anything that hits my mind’s eye,
but thoughts become jumbled,
and singularity dies.

What good are worded thoughts
when thunder, lightening and promises
of rain tantalize, then recede?
How does that help a fragmented id
coalesce into a Being? You’d be surprised…

I sit outside, smell the rain and lightening,
the essence of nature, and I feel primordial.
Yet, I’m contained in flesh. No matter.
Essence touches essence, and id knows the rest..
But, what solidified my thoughts
were eggs.

Growing up in Wisconsin with its
distinct Slavic influence, in its heart,
and farmer’s propensity to enjoy
a beer and farm talk after chores,
brings a pickled equation to relaxation.
Pickled pig hocks, various gizzards, and eggs.
It’s those eggs that have me thinking…

My husband grew up on farms,
has a corral, here, with chickens.
And he wants to pickle some eggs.
So, I’m putting those corral eggs into the pot,
to hard-boil them, and handling each one.
And I feel their slight differences with my hands.
My flesh. Eggs came first. A multitude
of shaped and colored eggs. All
have unique curves, because
we are circles, not squares.

This isn’t the first time I’ve viewed eggs,
but those were store-bought eggs. Us.
Raw eggs show diversity, intrigue and
hold the smell of essence,
unrefined by logic’s Time.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 10/10/04