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.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Online) - Published: January 18th, 2025 12:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, isa kemmy
Online)
Comments2
To think I crazily craft these daily, excepting Sundays. No salt whatsoever since my late father said to not salt scrambled eggs and I carried it over to omelets. Basil and of late mozzerella with diced onion, always diced onion. And what I dearly love is your perspective. Gorgeously rendered with marvelous imagery and a gripping, haunting poignancy. I love it! Thank you for sharing.
uuh i love it just how its brought out i like the poet style
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