Kindling sets flames to lick the firebox a cast iron skillet takes the heat, holds it in its open face, and I crack the egg. Just yesterday I threw compost out to the chickens, and the matted roots of harvested pea shoots, green stems sticking up like stubble. Somehow the earth is thawing—melting snow sets rivers running through the field and the chickens peck emerging worms in the barnyard. We all have creation inside us The chickens, they take worms and compost, turn it into muscle and eggs. Me, I take these deep golden yolks, thick and smooth, into my mouth I turn them into muscle and milk to feed my babe and he, too grows: supple skin stretches over elongating bones teeth cut through gums even his voice rises and shifts— an audible, intangible creation. He does not know yet of spring how thin blades of grass cut through winter’s kill how green spreads like a wave from the valley up this hillside, how the lone call of the raven is replaced by chickadees, robins, hermit thrush, and the reverberating howl of the snipe. He knows of the barnyard, of chickens and eggs, of warm milk. He knows of cool mornings, hot stoves. And what do I know of creation? Only that I cannot explain it, though morning sun streams through the window, though steam rises slowly from my tea though even in stillness everything moves, pushing us into transformation
Date: Fri, 25 Apr 2014 12:34:54 +0000 To: khansen71@hotmail.com
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