Scrambled Eggs and Wine


My mother’s eyes were hazel,

gray on the days 

when there were pains,

Blue on the days she giggled, green

in times she stewed

in the juices she made,

And admitted 


I’m a mess. 

But I love you just the same.

They all look at you 

when you come in the room.

You light it up 

She'd say,

Your smile, your eyes, 

They all look at you.

I glance around 

And see no one's gaze,

Just an afternoon lunch

Of scrambled eggs, white wine, 

Side of bacon, and toast. 

They served breakfast all day.

The restaurant dim, but sunny bright. 

Comfortable hues, soft fabrics, 

Familiar walls and table linen. 

You are so beautiful,  

She’d tell me, and I smiled,

Thanks, mom, not believing.

Her eyes were red most days, 

Watery, and 'l'm a mess' colored. 



I’m missing 

Scrambled eggs and wine. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

She was missing my father. I am missing her. 

View djtj's Full Portfolio
Januarian's picture

Your extended metaphor is

Your extended metaphor is very poignant---another brilliant poem from you!  Bravo!


[ * /+/ ^ ]