Eggs
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.
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blightedgrove) wrote,
cold
