Being Love

This morning, I made love with an egg.

As I crack it and it crackles
In hot pan, greased with ghee,
I smile and speak:
This morning is all about you, egg.
What do you need?

Salt?
Bread to soak up your yolky goodness?
Coriander leaves?

Oh, yes please!
Says egg, silently.

Hopping to chopping board,
Hand slices twice, freshly baked soda bread,
Before gliding warm butter upon it,
With ease.

I return to egg
And sprinkle salt, pepper and a pinch of paprika
Upon its bubbling white.

Responding with a smile,
Egg is turned,
Slowly, carefully, keeping egg’s heart unbroken.

Heat off,
Hats off,
Coriander on.

I lay egg upon its bready bed;
Thought-less,
Joy-full;
Seeing egg
Not as what egg should be or once was,
Not as meal, proof of skill or lack thereof,
But as egg is now.

I breathe egg in,
Full-attention,
Full of wonder,
In a state of delight,
As I ponder:
This is me, free of self,
This is me, making love,
This is me, being love,
With an egg,
And with life.