Quench Not

I awaken to a head full of fish roe,
to turtle hatchlings racing towards surf,
to a book that turns homes inside out
by country, each holding whatever’s
at hand, some little, apart from tools,
others more than enough to stuff a cul-de-sac.
An egg-case releases hundreds of spiderlings
on silken strands, but few fatten until fall.
The evangelist says the light shines
in the darkness, but the darkness understands
it not, meaning Jesus, of course, but I gloss
my own nature, a fecundity which spills
despite all that waits to swallow it.