This cold day wind swings
the bird nest pocketed in
a half cut maple limb.Two years
past, a storm of wind and
lightning made that limb into
a bridge for squirrels and a home
for birds.
The long fingered end barely
holds branch to limb. We all try
for solid I guess, industriously building
beliefs on poor assumptions, forming
faith on branches we can see.
Lives outside know the
brutality of natures' quick decisions
and give fear a place. A nest is
a deliberate planting of gathered sticks
in a lattice work of strength.
Shaken but holding in a bitter wind
and a balcony to see the first unfurling
of Spring maple leaves. Maybe, I
can still learn to build beauty
and fear into a future I can hold.
