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

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