The Poetry of
Jack Scott

An Amber Husk

The egg was laid inside the fern,
a fecund nest, unseen, forgotten
except by what was in the egg
beneath the distant,
other mother sun.

A quirk-
too dry, too hot,
too something,
too something not,
too long becoming,
yolk parched to ivory,
shriveled into wizened nut,
albumin to cellophane
its shell an amber husk.

Egg became a vacancy,
its tenant gone
and none to come.

It happens, a statistic.
There are many ferns
(They prosper.)
and many eggs,
the same;
this is but one.
This is death,
but not extinction.
There will be more
to come.


382 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.