Round
as the seasons which turn
and return, the wheel
of life made visible in its form
 
Sturdy
woven of thin sticks
that wrap around each other
over and under and through,
carefully worked with mud
dried to a thick adobe
 
Soft
cushioned in its center
with the finest pine needles
bits of down, a tracing of moss
and one blue thread
that appears and disappears
 
Home
once, to delicate eggs
and then hungry hatchlings
it sheltered them
till they were strong enough
to fly on their own
 
Fallen
to the ground
after a fierce storm
abandoned in the grass
still it holds its perfect shape
 
Sometimes
the lives we leave behind
are no less beautiful
for that—they cradled
their moments, and then
let them go


© by Ginny Lowe Connors.
Used here with the author’s permission.