Egg

Your shell is smooth and
delicate, like fine bone china.
Your weight, unique;
I make my palm a nest
for you, exquisite, oval stone.

Your fragility is supreme.
How precarious your
existance! You were
made to give life but lie
redundant, dormant,
one in a dozen.

A little womb, cold and
quiet. A bulb in
January soil.
A little cold world,
with a core of gold.

I will break you open
like parting clouds,
and expose your
golden orb. Or
you will shatter and
explode into sunshine.
Like a dropped teacup.