Nests
  
  
 One spring morning, under the trembling
 white blooms of our kiwi vine—
 supported by an old ladder, just in line
 with the seen-better-days porch railing—
  
 I glimpsed, as though deep into a cave,
 the woven edges of a wren’s nest.
 No doubt you guess the rest. 
 For the rest of the season, we gave
  
 those tiny, vociferous birds
 a very wide berth,
 moved our chairs, well knowing the worth
 of a space without words,
  
 of resonant emptiness, hidden
 under a fragrant curtain
 while the outcome is uncertain,
 in intent endeavors, bidden and unbidden.
  
  
 Leslie Schultz