Hey Saturn – where are you returning to? I saw you up ahead a couple of years ago, so massive, your global cargo moving, I was awestruck by the real feeling of time – no clock ticking. For as long as I was thinking, I had however been distracted from the tiny magic egg I had recently been sent down the phone. While I was venting, it appeared, and I’d promised myself to try and keep it safe and warm. It rests still fragile in my heated palm and I’m so glad a bumpy journey didn’t see it fall. I had been marvelling at its intricate form when it glowed, and so decided there and then, in that very place, to call it Confidence
The phone call alone had felt like an egg and spoon race while I asked why it was, that in this one little life, nobody had been kind enough to tell me exactly, with how much quality, and with how much quantity, one needs to like the self. Of course there was no answer. It was not that kind of an egg. Silent type. I confessed I sometimes still worry some eggs won’t ever grow too well or old. The heat may have been too hot, the neglect, way too cold.
Nevertheless, I said, we all try. There are tiny eggs now basking in this march of the Sun; in airing cupboards, in palm tree nests, by log fires, under the skin of the earth, and here with me in constant warmth. The temperature is rising now but at night I still need to remember a feather eiderdown, to tuck up, turn off the light, kiss goodbye to another good day - peace - and wherever Saturn is returning to, tiny eggs may well have grown well this way
The phone call alone had felt like an egg and spoon race while I asked why it was, that in this one little life, nobody had been kind enough to tell me exactly, with how much quality, and with how much quantity, one needs to like the self. Of course there was no answer. It was not that kind of an egg. Silent type. I confessed I sometimes still worry some eggs won’t ever grow too well or old. The heat may have been too hot, the neglect, way too cold.
Nevertheless, I said, we all try. There are tiny eggs now basking in this march of the Sun; in airing cupboards, in palm tree nests, by log fires, under the skin of the earth, and here with me in constant warmth. The temperature is rising now but at night I still need to remember a feather eiderdown, to tuck up, turn off the light, kiss goodbye to another good day - peace - and wherever Saturn is returning to, tiny eggs may well have grown well this way
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