If you have some leftover vegetables, diced,
Silent green fragments from yesterday’s meal,
Cut them into a brunoise, finely sliced,
Mix them into eggs for a morning’s heal.
A fragile shell breaks, yolk spills like the sun,
Shattered gold pooling in a pan’s dark heart,
Whisk with tender care, the act now begun,
Binding the lost pieces, a fragile art.
Each morning ritual holds its own weight,
A prayer whispered in the breaking dawn,
Every motion a quiet, measured fate,
As day and night weave threads tightly drawn.
From remnants, we conjure sustenance bright,
In the kitchen\'s hush, a day born of night.