Eggs

This morning, I woke up, let the dogs out, made the coffee, and put the fire on in the fireplace. I cover myself in my ratty old knitted blanket and I’m just sitting here on this dark morning and the clouds are gray and darker gray and I think, God, gray, how many grays there are! So now I’m thinking black stems and gorgeous white flowers and a dark gray sky and a big pale moon? Or gray stems and black sky? Blue stems or mix green with black stems or what, I can’t decide; the only things that stay the same are the gorgeous white flowers almost like midnight moths or butterflies, luscious like the fat juiciness of lichee fruit, or gardenias, and I know I can make these and I jump up and first write this down lest it get lost and now I’m heading out back to look at my eleven-by-fourteen piece of glass until it tells me what it wants to be.

Later, on a piece of plate glass thirty by fourteen that used to be a shelf in the Golden Notebook’s children’s section, I make a row of fried eggs with gorgeous yellow yolks.

It is now three days later and I have made dozens of eggs. I can’t stop. I want the world to see them. The eggs are turning me into an entrepreneur. I don’t want to sell them, but I am thinking of ways I could.