February 6, 2024

nest

I’m building my nest—poetry tiles, a salve for winter hands, scrambled eggs 
with smoked cheddar, a trio of sand dollars, a jigsaw puzzle, wildflowers, 
glue sticks, a recipe for bread, slippers. The voice note returning me to that week
in Hawaii. My mother’s emails. The fact of my sister. The feeling when she said,
”Next summer.” Paddleboards, twinkle lights, early sunrises. Half-sheets 
of origami paper. A package of fine-tipped markers and a set of folding chairs.
Potted zinnias and an inflatable raft in the shape of a flamingo. Pomegranates 
and the trick to get the seeds out. Lawry’s Seasoned Salt. Lemon zest. 
Orange soda. Firelight. Striped overalls. Ice water, straight from the tap.
The weeping willow that kept the secret of my first poem.