Saturday, September 15, 2012


Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger.

The fast was broken gracefully,
in time to greet the day,
and weave the yin and yang of me
into another shape.
It seemed as if the layered parts
of who I thought I was,
the dark and light and sunderings,
had brought this meal to pass.
The dawn surrendered soul to night,
broke the egg of life,
and served itself in tabled form
upon the breast of mind.
I hardly knew the lines which lay,
and turned into myself,
and yet the image had been cast;
obscure and complex grace.

An image prompt from:

1 comment:

  1. amazing poem.
    sometimes, we don't need to see the details.

    keep writing!