Ovum Egg Oeuvre
in its membrane
its opaque casing
Traveling in secret
To the porcelain bone-house
of an objet d’arte within
which the sun-gold
The heart of the egg
with the bloodspot
beneath a warming, feathered
weight: its mother
Growing tendrils– thin legs,
the nubs of wings, a beak, an eye–
Breaking forth weak, wet, calling–
Replica and oeuvre.
Break of Day
The world flared up this morning
When I drove into the sun, blinded
Taking the dogs to the river
dog joy broke forth
Yes, my gilded dog plunged into surging water
To find her ball, and dashed around me
This was my measure
of completion on this day:
Night and frost broken
At the store, marked down fresh
in pearl bright froth, replete
With the tang of the sea.
These are lovely, Jenne. I especially like “Matin: Dry Creek”; it’s wonderful.
Thank you, Maureen. I had quite a bit of response to my essay in Baby Boomer Group on She Writes. xxxj
Sandra Beasley said:
Personally, it’s “Break of Day” that sticks with me–I like that last stanza very much. Thank you for sharing these poems with us!
Thanks, Sandra; so sweet of you to stop by. I look forward very much to reading “I Was the Jukebox”– Brava!
Hi Sandra– new poem on wordpress blog, Twilight Foxes…. hope all’s well and that you’re still on cloud nine…xj