Nest

Every three months, my husband
hangs a wreath on our front door
to welcome a new season.
He says it brings him joy.

Just a few weeks ago, he hung
a spring wreath of fake Buddleia,
purple corn cob shapes atop
green leaves along with some
other white flower, possibly
meant to be Heliotrope.

Twice, I walked outside
and a bird seemed to fly
out of me. I looked around,
saw nothing. Then, coming home
before dusk, about to climb
the porch stairs, I saw the bird
fly into a nest, its escape disclosing
its location inside the wreath
where four sky-colored eggs
lay small as candied almonds.
Even with the door opening
and shutting, the pulse
of the nest is steady still,
tucked into the wreath.

Love your round egg world,
little birds to be. Eggs to hatch
in a round nest held by a round
wreath, made home at my door.
Let the intimate details of your life
entwine with mine, whether
I have already hatched or wait to,
hidden at the threshold.

First published in North Carolina Literary Review online, winter 2022