found nest, nest found

imperfect bowl                      a fallen home
spun with mud                      just right for the three
small blue eggs                    who left their indentations
in the place                           where a mother loved,
where now                            only a memory remains in
remnants of feathers,            reclaimed strands of blond hair
are tied with sticks,                they could have been any of ours,
so sweet that somehow         we are a part of the miracle that
life started here –                    flies free now in a perfect sky.