This
nest is a shadow slipping away from itself into the body of the world.
This
nest is the back of a pirate’s head, stern and foolish in its seadrenched
tousle of cloth.
This
nest is the wing of a raptor, tipped with sky and the shouts of smaller creatures
on the forest floor below.
This
nest is the punctuation of weather.
This
nest is a whirlwind, mute but full of consequence.
This
nest is an acclamation, a bow to the magic of work in the night.
This
nest is a cave, silent until you go deep enough to hear the sound of
waterfalls.
This
nest is a knot in the archetypal tree of life, puzzled by its own antiquity and
size.
This
nest is the way a well looks suspended in air and soft with the deficit of
shallow mud.
This
nest is a big velvet curtain with a heavy tasseled cord to make it move.
This
nest is a wooden barrel waiting for the warm rain of April.
This
nest is the head of a bear, asleep in a place no one knows to look for.
This
nest has the bold but fragile determination of wax across the lip of an
envelope, waiting to be disturbed and even broken.
This
nest is a witness to the work of dry days in midwinter.
This
nest is the shift of a clenched fist into an outstretched palm, offered
sideways as a salutation and a nod.
This nest
wants to be a bonfire but settles for claiming the bodies of fierce and
dangerous creatures who carry the sting of flame.
This
nest is a saint, a relic of patience.
This
nest is the cousin of the mountaintop it frames against the silver winter sky.
This
nest is some kind of promise, a paradox of stillness hoarding strength.
This
nest is a cloud heavy with repentance and ready to shed its burdens into the
waiting boughs of leafless trees in Lent.
This
nest has a language made of scents and shapes, of the flavors of treebark and
basil, of the song that the eaves sing in high winds.
This
nest knows things about the land that no one else does. It might be waiting for
the question that will make it hum like a harp or a banjo.
This
nest is the cape of a journeying hero, ragged from the clutch of foreign
caverns.
This
nest is a sheet of lightning, waiting for the chance to be a fork.
This
nest is a boulder stuck in the cleft of a rushing river, eager to make friends
with stranded paddlers.
This
nest is the head of a giant, used to the way things look in thinning air.
This nest
claims its own sovereignty but still does what the stormwinds say it should.
This
nest knows the syllables of three seasons and hopes to learn the language of
the fourth.
This
nest is not a compromise or a loss. It lives with being torn apart and
shredded. A little bit of its sleeping heart will hang around like a hologram
in the space above the forest when it falls, even if the textures of its walls
have long since crumbled. Its brokenness is part of the horizon’s memory palace
forever, one of those subtle claims that nature has on time, a bookmark
inserted in between the pages of an empty wordless book shaped like a circle.
©Laura Sorrells 2015
all rights reserved
You have furnished an admirable and comprehensive catalog of the symbolism of nests and I am gratefully improved by it. I am reminded of old Russian and Swedish accounts of clay eggs left in tombs as practical emblems of immortality. In my Egyptian lexicon, hieroglyphs --literally sacred carvings-- eggs represent pure potentiality, and the nest is everything you say it is. As with the Indians and Druids, this planet is our nest and the egg is the vault of space, the heavens. The processes and aspects of your nest are universal, cosmological and just darn fun to read. My compliments and admiration.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Geo. It's been so long since I really wrote anything substantive at all that I wasn't sure about this. I love your allusion to the clay eggs. Your comment on my poem is a poem in itself, I think. I so appreciate your encouragement.
DeleteHornet nests are so incredible but woe to one who explores it while occupied
ReplyDeleteIndeed. I don't plan on it. I saw the hornets flying around and crawling on the nest before winter came, and surprisingly, they never bothered me or a friend who helped me with some work on my property last September. They are the big hornets of Asian origin and quite intimidating to see. One flew into my downstairs library/living area and died on the woodstove hearth. It was gigantic. I have a healthy respect for them. I guess I kind of want the nest to be gone by spring....
DeleteThis nest is a muse & a snapshot into your beautiful poetheart. A wonderful, enlightening write, Laura. Thank you for sharing. xo
ReplyDeleteThank you kindly, Marion. I am so glad you enjoyed this.
ReplyDelete