THE WEAVE:

Chiron sends Vesta

a poem, to flesh

out his section of the library…

I am an egg,
finally cracking.

I am the yolk.
Golden, and on

the ground, returned
to Earth.  A round

orb, breaking with
a life I am not

living, but feeds
the roots of All

I fall upon.
I am the shell, bone

and broken, encompassing
Nothing, giving Way

to Death of dreams.
Here, together,

the outside and in,
both at last relenting.

Soft and One.
I See how it is

perfect as it is.