Morning Walk

In the wind, the nests come down
I find them on the grass the next day, empty
and I want to gather them, to set them
in their trees again, or take them home
to feather my own shelves

Just like a woman who says, this old thing?
when someone compliments the dress that once
made her heart sing, the mother bird
has built her marvel, woven one blue string
into the sticks, walls snug and smooth
a perfect curve inside, protection for the tender shells
the gaping mouths she'll feed, but on the outside
just a bunch of twigs the wind has gathered
stashed, haphazard in a crook of branch
concealed amid the leaves

They're gone.

I want to cradle this, to hold it in my hand
to trace the flight, to feel
the story of my own life, light
as feathers on my palm