The Wren II

I see, the nest, sprung with

quiet folded petals, each as a small 

fragrant pause of poetry—

a little blush on the purity 

never quite folded open, just

a hush of hint in the billowing wind

the subtly has all the passion of 

love & life & journey

& misery & death & a scarred void

where echoes swim into the deep 

beyond beyond & beyond 

The Wren, softly left, the swaying branch, her nest, something white, warm & welcoming, nearly unnoticed, to all, but those within. 


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