Nest
I walked out, and the nest
Was already there by the step. Woven basket
of a saint
sent back to life as a bird
Who proceeded to make
a mess of things. Wind
right through it, and any eggs
long vanished. But in my hand it was
intricate pleasure, even the thorny reeds
softened in the weave. And the fading
leaf mold, hardly
itself anymore, merely a trick
of light, if light
can be tricked. Deep in a life
is another life.
I walked out, the nest
already by the step.
Marianne Boruch
From... POEMS: New and Selected
Published by Oberlin College Press 2004
(Used by kind permission)
1 comment:
The baby birds have grown and flown away. The nest remains. Primal remains of past activity. Nests seem to be a part of the old long ago. "...deep in a life is another life." We are blessed to see this and read beautiful poetry.
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