A nest created from branches bare,
Populated with tiny toes that grow and strain.
There lies my heart.
The nest itself grows lush, yet
In the discomfort of comfort,
They fly,
Trailing behind invisible contrails of love
To forever guide them home.
A nest created from branches bare,
Populated with tiny toes that grow and strain.
There lies my heart.
The nest itself grows lush, yet
In the discomfort of comfort,
They fly,
Trailing behind invisible contrails of love
To forever guide them home.
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“Populated with tiny toes that grow and strain.” Beautiful.
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Thank you
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This is beautiful.
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Thank you
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It’s already been said but this really is beautiful and it was a pleasure to read. So much so, I had to go over it a few times to embed the images in my mind. Great job.
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Thank you. I really appreciate that.
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And hopefully, they will always find their way back. Lovely play of words and imagery.
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Thank you. 🙂
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I like that “discomfort of comfort.” No matter how good life is at home, they have to learn to fly on their own.
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They are stirred to go and find their way. My eldest was the most alive when he moved to a different state and had to rely on himself without mommy and daddy’s help. Thanks for reading.
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At least they come back for visits after they fly away!
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I really liked how you gave hints to the parents’ journey before them – the contrails, the question in the first line of who created that nest. The nest full of toes kinda creeped me out. My favorite line was “the discomfort of comfort.”
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Really? No tiny toes? There were babies attached to them. Thanks for the feedback. I was hoping that line would resonate with people.
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