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.
- Author: gray0328 ( Offline)
- Published: July 10th, 2024 10:10
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: Qurrat Al Ain
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