Broken Eggs

Dec 31 2015

The plate slipped, and shattered.

In a fraction of a second

a demonstration

of friction, gravity

centre of mass,

disorder

maximized.

Useless waste, whisked away.

From shards, lethally edged

to fine porcelain dust.

And time, in its only direction

to the lowest energy state.

Beyond rescue,

just as broken eggs

can’t uncrack,

spilled milk

return to the glass.

How miraculous

that the white contains a fully formed bird.

That this turbid semi-liquid

simple, featureless,

could have everything needed

for life.

And who knows

which came first,

offspring

or broken crockery,

mother hen

or hungry chick.

Or how life exists

against every physical law,

brief as it is.

That brilliant flicker

of heat and heart

struggling for breath,

when entropy

is the death of us all.

I don't like carelessness or waste, so I wasn't pleased about this broken plate. So why not try riffing on the unfortunate event: who knows, a decent poem might even redeem my sloppiness! I'm not sure if this qualifies as "decent", but at least it has some whimsy and cleverness.

The first thing that came to mind was all the physics that had occurred in that fraction of a second: the failure of static friction, the conversion of potential energy to kinetic, the equal and opposite force when it stopped, inescapable gravity. And, of course, the ultimate triumph of entropy: the finality of the broken plate, the first step in its relentless reduction to molecules and atoms and then absolute zero, along the inexorable arrow of time.

Broken plates led to cracked eggs, and then to what they contain: the miracle of life. That the information and organizing principle microscopically coded in DNA can make sense of this mundane and undifferentiated substance. And then that life exists at all, valiantly holding off entropy for it brief flicker of time.