Ova

       ~ for Beth Vincelette


In a world heading toward predicted
ruin, remember how there are still 

things that begin— Green shoots
pushing through the paper tent 

of a garlic bulb; tubers that thrive 
after the final frosts of January,
 
eyes open in the sustaining dark.
And every day, an egg from the hen 

house: grey or speckled brown, white
haloed with blue, ivory streaked with

olive as it passes through the oviduct . 
Whether your life is the size of a humming-

bird egg or the Madagascan elephant bird
egg, its sphere cradles its own kind 

of depth. Don't we who have mothered
know what it feels to die a thousand 

deaths and return from the brink? Praise,
then, the roundness of every new beginning.

Praise what holds a tiny world in, a sky 
not yet cracked on the edge of a pan or fallen.

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