Loom of a Fireweaver

My charcoal hen left an egg
In the hay and feces this morning,
Still warm and sticky from being born.
Tinted pink, pulsing with life
That was going nowhere.
I claimed that egg for my own
And offered it up to Brigid,
As if it were mine to give
In the first place.

Placing it on her alter between
The blood red Indian corn
And the bitter wine,
The growing chick inside,
I committed to her care.
Still how many more
Do hens themselves
Offer her, hidden in
The fields and hedgerows?

Talismans for an easy birth
On a clear autumn morning.