On this first morning in March, I feel like an egg.
All of spring’s potential gathered into one potent, delicate container.
I am incubating. Not yet to the hatching stage (and that will certainly take some pecking), I’m in some molecular metamorphosis.
It’s womby, warm and dark in here. Safe and unfinished.
Not yet completely cooked, I simmer slowly while a whole new world is promised.
I am a trajectory evolving, spiraling and spilling over the sidelines of linear time.
Until that perfected moment, when the mystery of life culminates. Collides with time and space.
Or something like that…