Egg Yolk Dreams

Isn’t it strange, my yearning for the yolk of an egg,

As a child, it was breakfast’s cherished ache.

Now, it’s my father I miss,

He, who in the mornings would gift me this bliss.

Separating yolk from white,

The golden sun to my appetite’s delight,

And the white, merely a shadow in our morning light.

Then he left, leaving behind dreams of yolk,

His dead, as gentle as the egg’s white cloak.

Unexpected, pure, a whisper unspoken,

I long for my father, our bond unbroken.

In our poor world, the yolk was a token,

Of love, of care, subtly woven.

Tasting it now brings a twinge, a remembrance,

Of a life in whites, of words unspoken.

I miss you so, in every yolk broken.