Hashed Browns

The eggs
are pat
and caressed
within wickerwear
by pillowed hands
of old and grey.

They roll
and stay
nestled
and lay
to hatch
within view
of insomniac
eyes.

A fruition
awaited;
realized
and prized

but blink to find
smoke and ash,
black and red,
boiling blood
clouding sight
of shell
upon shell --

what was
gathered in haste;
another disgrace
and disappointment,
more days of dismay.

"Why can't they stay!
Up in smoke,
gone in a flash"

Dash to rehash
and count on certainty -
the unreliable,
unpredictable,
uncountable fate.

So scramble
the dregs
and gamble
once more,

And before
experience settles
its natural course
in the brain,
You are out
to count
and ready your hens
once again.