The Empty Nest

Mounds of soft moss,
Lines of lichen,
Gently plucked down,
Stitched and wound with love,
Sewn into place with parental care.
Exquisite tailoring.

A cup to hold hope,
A warm bowl for the unborn to call home.
Safe beneath the cover of a mother,
Oval emerald jewels waited.
Full of promise,
Filled with hope,
Perfect.

A secret, a special find,
Childhood mystery fed fervent mind.
He felt the warmth of their love,
Touched the sanctuary of home.
Here was family.

Untainted by harsh words of blame,
Painted not in the hues of shame,
Or accusations that long, long remain.

Then they were gone.
Not fledged on wings of aspiration,
Just, gone.
Cold and grey sat the down,
No joy to be found.
Just angry words that fell from other’s lips,
Leaving him pressed to the ground.

Deep into the earth below the nest he pushed his heart, his hands, his soul.
But there was nothing.
The vessel now offered a cold drink.
Brewed from bitter herbs,
It’s taste would linger long past that Spring.
Bringing him back to that sunny bank,
Time and again.
Time and again.
Time and again.

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