Can you tell what the nest
is going to look like or feel like
with one twig, or two, or ten?
Which twig, exactly, makes a nest a home?
Is it even the twigs?
Or is it the tree,
the forest,
the moonlight?
Or is it your own song?
It’s a cold night
and a slivered moon
and I am surrounded
by books, boxes
pots and pans—
twigs all.
They aren’t yet a nest
though it may be
that’s it’s just too soon to tell.
Home was never a place
to return to,
just to flee.
I know how to jump.
I know how to fly.
But not how to slowly
weave all the branches together
into something that feels like home.
Must the nest be complete
to call it home?
Or is it enough to love
each and every twig?
To love the sunrise over
the mountain with pink clouds
and the light through the windows
and the pine woods and laughter
with friends over dinner.
Am I the nest maker
weaving each twig into a whole?
Or is it only love
that binds the twigs together?
I guess it’s simply
too soon to tell.
© 2024 Gretchen L Schmelzer, PhD