Ovum

The egg insists on its own reality, 
So I go along, easy, not one 
To counter what I don’t know. 

And then there are egg shapes 
In every day, egg hills, dips, 
And the spherical yolk 
Crossing the sky and the body, 
Common mystery nobody quite knows. 

If one egg would linger, identify 
Itself in the cramped web of days, 
Stand up and tell me here and now, 
I’d blossom like morning, wheat fields 
In the rain, open like a vein of rare gold.