Billions Fall from My Eyes

One great thing - is essentially - like any other great thing. They all fly from the same center, not an anatomical space, not a specific thingness, but one revealed goldmine overpouring. What did I see, what do I see? Butter, you buttering toast, your hair all muzzy from sleep. Yellow sunlight on the kitchen counter. The blue plate that has no ready words, yet speaks for the billions, that shine from the one yellow yoke, in its broken eggshell.