This morning at my office I noticed a wrens nest that must have been blown out of the tree by the big storm. What a beautiful work of art. Their little beaks carefully wove grasses and twigs; lined it with soft hair - maybe sweepings from the house of the elderly lady who lives next door. It is strong enough to hold the sacred eggs and a few little pink and gray bodies with large beaks along with mum or dad.
Like the wrens, I have lost my nest. Not the physical surroundings but the spiritual entity that was lined with the soft hairs of love.
Daily Haiku
not a day goes by
without my remembering
all those years of you
Your text is as poetic as your haiku. Both beautiful and sad.
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