“A poet writes a poem as a hen lays an egg,
and both of them feel better afterwards.” — Samuel Butler
I misread the first time.
That’s how much sense I found, saying “yes!
of course the poet and the poem, both
feeling much improved for their process.”
Only after reading again did I realize: the we
who are meant to feel better
includes the hen alone.
The poem, like the egg, impartial to its experience.
I looked down at the treasure I held,
warm moments before
from the heat of my body,
now cold brass.
Then I remembered “one makes the meaning
one needs to find”
and again we three are smiling —
this golden egg
cradled in my palm,
the poem hatching.