Eggs

Eggs

She stands just so in her tidy kitchen,
Cooking with neat economy,

The egg, flesh colored shell
Perfect, round, tapering
Smooth as a flat, flawless, painted surface
Balanced perfectly in her hand.

She has a certain way of cracking an egg.
Breaking shell and inner membrane, all at once.
White protein, clear unblemished,
Dripping after the first deft crack.

There are foods she won't eat
Mushrooms, some shell fish, it's the texture, she claims.
And people who are not to her taste either.
Too self assured or judgmental.

Yolk, yellow as daffodils
Whole, unbroken, held back, discarded.
She separates the whites, 
Whips them, beats in cheese gently.

Given time and telltale dash of rooster Intrusion
What would the egg become?

The tall souffle comes from the oven
Practical and beautiful as her household.
A warm, welcome meal
Set with carefully chosen friends, music, humor and discourse

But what if,
Out of liquid gold and nourishing white
She allowed wet, shell cracking
Fluttering, Jonquil colored
Life to just . . . Happen?