Nest Poem

I see it on the mossy floor, neglected, rejected, becoming a part of the forest,

I pick it up, feel how fragile it is,

Gently prickling my hand, it is musty and mossy,

I imagine the young chicks, breaking free from the shell,

It is like a hollowed out baseball, like an ordered jungle of twigs, moss and leaves,

I notice the small oak leaves and hair, woven carefully into the puzzle,

I put it back on the mossy floor, where it can become part of the forest.

                                                                              Chelsea Owen