everything is an effort
the results seem
too thin
too spindly

work
seems stretched
as if it might fall over
from being so tired

except
on one half-shell
of an egg left over
from a full breakfast

lies a poem
or really a piece of a poem
ready to be inside
heart and brain

a yolk or part of a yolk
could with tremendous work
become a world
a thought could become whole

so with fat frozen fingers
and tottering will
I begin to work
as if I were not a child

but a sun rising over a landscape
I’d not seen before this
marveling before
its tiny beauty

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T