Tuesday, July 01, 2008

Poem While an Egg Boils

Poem While an Egg Boils

Six minutes. Not too soft,
solid with a vein of molten gold.
In the time that takes,
rain will scour the skylight,
small birds will twirl rudely
in front of the family cat,
grass will wave in a rich sea
against the hills and next door
they will pack the mouth
with cotton wool and raise
an artery for the needle.
Such a little time
for steam to mist the glass,
for the world to change unutterably.


hope said...

I'm almost afraid to ask why lies next door. :0

Marion McCready said...

This is really lovely.