Morning Benediction

 

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.