Dire thoughts of abandonment were the first to rush in..
The family, the folk would tear apart.
From hatching, catching flight and wandering,
a bird's life writtten in stone.
Each twig collected with joy, each effort painful as it is made with hope.
With it, built, the nest, the folk.
The day of the high winds, dusk and dawn,
with it dust, debris and perils of another land.
Saw the nest, knocked on the ground
In disorder existence becomes unnatural.
In disorder existence becomes meaningless.
The nest, the folk, its debris on ground..
In disorder existence becomes a replica.
A hand can make us whole.
A thought escapes my mind,
of ever being whole.. again..
A desire to be whole becomes an illusion.
