Green  yolk


When she was young,

she ate over-boiled eggs and philosophies 

on white bread toast 

’til the hem of her paper bag grew pompous 

and leaked over the yolks of her eyes-

flicking 

drops of ignorance 

on a western weather vane pointing towards an east bound sun.

speckling 

thousand year old eggs with jasmine scented poetry,

she  wraps  herself in silk 

and arises

to  sip balmy truths from tea cups

floating 

 over rice paddies 

where origami swans listen for star fruit trees

as they brush haiku across her skies

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