Corner nest

A few stanzas will not make you more
productive. The smell of honeysuckle,
the gravel crunch, the mothering
sparrows will do precious little for
your numbers. But if they stop you
for a moment, they will have
done their work.

Those tangled scraps are a corner
nest, where your embryonic
self in speckled porcelain gathers
—gram by gram—the strength
to one day ride the open air.

Do not cage your wings with thoughts
of industry. You need the nurture
of the broken things that take their
time. Handle them with tenderness.
Let yourself.