Bird Poem, Birds, Empty Nest, Nest, Poem, Poems, Poetry, spring poem
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?