-This poem reflects on the quiet making of a nest as an act of care, preparation, and faith in the life that is about to arrive.
In the fork of a waking branch,
a small brown architecture grows,
twig by twig, and thread by thread,
held by instinct, wind, and care.
A curl of grass, a fallen stem,
the soft theft of a feathered tuft,
each fragile thing is taken up,
and turned toward shelter, warmth, and need.
No trumpet marks this tender work,
no blossom bends to watch it form,
yet here the season gathers close,
in this round labor made of trust.
Soon there will be breath and sound,
a pulse of hunger, open mouths,
but first the world must shape a place,
where life can enter and be held.