zen and the art of eggs, sunny side up

except, not so much about death.
rather, we live. we alive, and we
mortal few, but we shelter lives
like mother hens with wings
of chickens with their chicks -
collapsed over the softness,
the vulnerability and naïveté
protected from the wind, saved
from the calloused hand of
farmer john and his hungry lips.
we are all searching for sustenance,
but sometimes we need to look
beyond others to find what it is
our bodies desire, and only then
can we truly begin to start living.