Poem 4/21/11


Building, shifting, returning,
finding new spots or reworking
the same one year after year.
Each species has its own intent.
Each person, too; we have moved
nine times since we flew away
on our own, together. Nine times,
in sixteen years, we have packed.
Nine times in our sixteen years,
we have sorted and filed and found.
We thought eight was the charm,
that the house we bought
would be our happy little nest
forever more. Now I cannot
be sure of ten, sure of the second
house we are buying this summer,
though I dream and hope
and feather my nest brightly,
always with you, however many
more years to come, however
many more moves, nesting together.