by Dejah Patterson

My niece Olivia
Cracks eggs into the pan,
Sizzling as they drop
From her tiny hands. 
Standing on the stool,
She is nearly as tall as the spice rack,
Nearly as small as the cabinets
And counter tops.
The eggs
Are giant pearls in her hand,
Spilling harvested sunshine
Into the dark pan
And onto the floor.
A make-shift dawn
As the gold
Brightens the black cast iron
And illuminates
The earthen hardwood floors.

Return to LSR Return to Poetry

Dejah Patterson has always loved writing, and has studied poetry, fiction, and third-person biography writing at the UO in Eugene, OR. She has won several awards for her writing, as well as five dollars from a lottery ticket, and hopes to pursue writing, traveling, and teaching as a career. Dejah is also a songwriter, a musician, and an artist, so if the whole writing thing falls through she’s got those other things going for her, which is nice. She hopes to make it big as a writer someday, so that she can get a roadie to write her bios for her.