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.
2 comments:
I'm almost afraid to ask why lies next door. :0
This is really lovely.
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