The skillet was already hot, waiting,
an iron womb about to receive its first,
delicate drops of oil spreading thin.
Eggs, plump, unwitting in their carton,
await the moment of their uselessness.
Each cracking shell a small murder,
offering a jaunty grin of resignation—
nature\'s sturdy envelope split wide.
Yellow promises slide and splatter;
a gooey canvas of potential unlocked.
A whisk in hand, we dance a tango,
effortless whisk, transforming chaos
with each frenzied snap of the wrist.
A little salt, perhaps some pepper,
then the alchemy of heat and hope.
Whispers of parsley curl upward,
their fragrance snipped short of flight
by the deft turns of a spatula\'s grace.
The thing about sacrifice and creation
is that they often taste the same.