Hidden

I am but a weed

rooted in solemn shade

From a carefree seed

slid down a dewed grass blade
Shall I sway to pose

against the heinous rose

If only to stand a chance

from the pruning gardener’s glance

 
Having always viewed the weed as an underdog I will be her champion tonight. 

Ode to an egg

Oh but you are … so..so deliciously, teasing me

with your farm fresh bright
Shall I flip you over-easy?

Your lascivious ooze shall remind me of my haste

I must be patient

Or prepare a little bath and let you linger to poached perfection

No
You deserve a pedestal for your perfection

And softly, softly I shall indulge

But shall I have the patience?
Perhaps just throw you down

And scramble your senses

Until you are

quite

Done

 

What happens when you are preparing dinner, feeling poetic and letting  your mind wander all at the same time. 😊