Ghazal of Burgeoning Things

Thin virgules newly drawn on the upper limbs of trees;
and in between, the gathering forms of nests.

I thought the hydrangea bush was dead— but yesterday,
beside the gate, buds of whorled green, clustered like nests.

A pair of hawks glides in and out of the pines, exchanging
urgent, nasal cries: Come hither? Come feather? Come nest?

No longer indistinct, these warming undercurrents in the air.
I’ll cut my hair, trade my soft greys for orange, I’ll leave the nest.

I thought we’d inventoried every trail. But here’s another
flocked with green, smelling of earth, littered with tiny nests.

Luisa A. Igloria
03 04 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

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