Nest {a poem}
Something about nests
so carefully assembled
and surprisingly sturdy,
airtight, able to hold
the most fragile beings.
Something about how
my own nest fills
and empties, fills
and empties, children
flying into their lives
then returning as I sit
sentry, tending, constructing
a life and a home
out of mud and words and
bits of memory and whatever’s
in the fridge that day,
and how they know no matter
when they come through
the door again I will hug them
as tightly as the day they left.
How many nests do we weave
in a lifetime, how many homes
do we create and lose and leave?
Where do the birds go
when their handiwork
falls to the ground, ruined
by weather or human interference?
They do not call this resilience
or perseverance, no,
it is the heart compass
of taking care, of protecting
our young and providing shelter
that tells them what to do next.
And so it is with us, with me,
always wanting to tuck my babies in
close under wing, even as they fly away.