The Egg

I hold it gently in my palm
a world contained in silence
its shell a fragile prayer
its skin thinner than the lies we tell ourselves
to keep from breaking
Inside there is waiting
not noise not movement
but a patient ache
a golden sun folded into liquid darkness
a universe unborn
yet dreaming of warmth
The egg knows loneliness
its cradle is solitude
it exists between being and becoming
a question that no hand can answer
until it cracks
When broken it bleeds not red but light
and in that spilling is both loss and love
for to release is to destroy
but also to nourish
to give of itself so another may live
it teaches that tenderness
is always one heartbeat away from ruin
Perhaps we too are eggs
walking shells that hold trembling infinities
afraid of shattering
yet yearning to be opened
to be seen to be poured out
into someone else’s hunger