Empty

the fern looks undeniably authentic 

despite its plastic fronds

hanging in a basket of sandy loam 

facing the lush courtyard

the wren who builds her nest among 

its leafy blades is persistent   she 

arrives early mornings   weaves dried grass 

brown leaves   filaments of hair   a red button 

some lint from the dryer   a bit of tinsel 

which she entwines in the circular mass 

then flies off

against my better judgement I stand 

a few feet away   survey her creation 

the next day   watching through the 

window slightly ajar    I note her absence 

where is she?   is the roost complete? 

is she keeping her eggs temperate?

I wait to hear chicks chirping 

my ears ache with the silence

in a rainstorm the suspended refuge falls 

from its mount   I look inside   the nest is 

intact but void of any avians   did I drive 

the mother bird away by my scent?

the empty nest cries out to me   night after 

night after night I dream of the emptiness 

the silence

I am bereft