even makes dishes look beautiful.
My grandmother’s bowl – cracked but still in tact, thanks to Bohemian precision.
To Be An Egg
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…
This Was the Light…
just before
seven inches of rain
thunder
lightning
and 24 hours
of no motherhood duties
just socks
in the tropics
tea and biscuits
an oven warming
while I stay in
hunker
and hide
behind
sheets
water down pouring
outside
inside
blankets
up to my chin
ahhhh liquid
pooling
pelting
sloshing
blessing
bringing me
sweet rest
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