A Poet Making Scrambled Eggs

A Poet Making Scrambled Eggs
A poet making scrambled eggs imagines chickens scratching in the yard, warm sun upon a never-painted fence, an old dog napping on the porch stoically resigned to all its fleas. He feels the breeze on his arms as he wields his axe behind the barn with an angry rooster looking on. By the time the frying pan is warm, a poet making scrambled eggs has scattered grain on barren ground and chopped a pile of good dry kindling. When he beats the eggs inside a bowl, he hears church bells ringing � looks up, half-expects to see his great-grandfather sitting at the table in somber Sunday clothes. A poet making scrambled eggs picks up a lump of cheese and sees a meadow and a stream beyond the farm, sad willows bending down to shield young love�s embrace with modest hands. When he lifts his meal from the pan, a poet making scrambled eggs no longer knows his name or cares. Instead, he wonders at the years that led him here, the folly and the pain, and the food that tastes so good. *February 26, 2006* Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author	Main Page Author�s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let�s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation E-mail & Parting Thoughts Flippantly Answered Questions
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