They always said how wonderful

The house, emptied of chaos:

Ceaseless noise, busyness, broken things.

Think of all you can do, they said,

And I imagined myself traveling:

Rome, Ireland, rural Maine.

When baby birds fly away,

The parents also disappear,

The nest emptied, quiet, molding,

Until the next spring,

When it’s borrowed anew,

Re-imagined with mud and straw,

And hair from the horse’s mane.

I understand what it’s like,

The need to take flight

From the quiet beds.

What’s the point of the nest

With no throat-open birds,

Waiting to be fed?