Traces

Robin’s nest,

tucked high

in a bounty of vines,

that hug the north side,

of our house.

 

Empty now.

 

First,

pieces of blue shell,

lying below,

then,

fluttering whispers,

stay still,

stay still,

then, 

flight rehearsals,

vines trembling,

as they prepared

to leave.

 

Now,

gone.  

 

The only traces,

white splotched leaves below,

remnants of what they were fed.

 

Part of our lives,

without knowing,

what they were bringing:

innocent determination,

once born,

we will live,

learning within 

these vines,

growing up

the north side,

of your house,

you see.

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