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