egg


there are no words for this
but that it has
the patience of an egg
the wisdom of a mother

there is no sound that
it can make except
the screaming shrill of
silence

it is invisible and yet
I see it from the corner
of my mind’s eye
it tastes like smoke
but smells of rain
(the promise
of a quench)

to touch it would
be sacrilege

to touch it now would
be profane

together we
wait

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