Poetry

Nesting

I saw a bird leave the nest.
No really, a baby bird making its first flight.

A tiny head weaving, unsure, bobbing, until,
out it flew, dropping toward the ground,

My heart stopped.
Then, a sudden thrust upward, and he was gone.

They don’t come back.
That first flight from the next is the last.

The nest sits dejected, straw dangling,
a horrid milky mess on the porch.

“Not next year,” I scold,
on hands and knees scrubbing.

The new year has come round
we are nearing spring.

I watch the sky, listen for the songs
waiting for the magic to return.

what matters

moments that leave only quiet

sun raising into my waiting hours

showers that drench tears

a book arriving mid-day

dirt that smells like rain

that pink peony that made me cry

rain that never empties the sky

love that laughs

touching when it counts