It’s spring! Perfect time to listen to my poem “Ode to the Eggs”

 Ode to the eggs
             after Pablo Neruda
  
 Fields,
 beaches,
 ponds,
 and trees
 sing
 as you
 fall
 on twigs
 and bridles,
 feathers,
 moss,
 sludge,
 and sandbanks.
 You hug
 in groups
 of seven,
 thirteen,
 or fifty-three.
 Fragile
 and immobile,
 you lie
 side by side,
 defying
 your
 hungry
 predators.
 Brown
 patches
 or turquoise
 patterns
 become
 a soft
 embrace,
 an act
 of camouflage
 that protects
 your
 burgeons
 of life
 from
 our greedy
 hands
 and
 growling
 stomachs—
 nothing
 can stop
 our appetite
 for
 the
 vital
 protein
 running
 inside
 the elliptical
 shape
 of your chalky
 beige
 shells.
 In the protected
 space
 of your
 nesting
 nature,
 your viscous
 substance
 creates—
 a
 beating
 heart,
 followed
 by
 blood
 vessels,
 a tail bud,
 wings and legs,
 eyes,
 brains,
 beaks and claws,
 feathers and scales.
 After days
 or weeks
 or months,
 you crack—
 in the fields,
 and in the trees,
 on beaches
 and in the reeds,
 creatures
 crawl,
 squawk
 and walk
 tasting
 the air
 and the
 nourishing
 juice
 of
 food.
 Now
 rack
 and ruin
 you stay
 behind
 as little
 dirty
 white dots,
 composing
 compost,
 sand
 and soil.
 Carried
 along by
 flowing
 water,
 you become
 fertile
 ground,
 sediments,
 and the source
 of a new
 cycle
 of
 life.