From the fountain

Fern prize (in the works)

Blue, unmistakably turquoise, as waters drawn from Melusine,
nested in twigs wrapped from oak pollen--
shockingly yellow--
feather dusted, perfectly formed,
these robins' eggs were nested in my fern.

Let them have it, my Husband says, without pause,
the cynicism lacking,
you can always get another fern.
I think they've already been abandoned though.
What mother wouldn't sit for five possibilities?
Five flights awakened in a solid, hearty nest.
Later, a bird plunged into the office window. Certainly an omen.

The robins have been everywhere this Spring. Even so,
if they had a song, I wouldn't know it.
The pine spring up in fast forward, looming,
and wrens circle the fern, sat hanging in its basket,
unknowingly hiding the prize inside.
I check on it daily, ensuring not to touch, only wanting to touch.

The little eggs like pieces of native jewelry, like
robin's egg blue, chuckles Husband certainly now taken over by Spring.
What would my Roman gods think of that?
Didn't they eat wrens in Rome?
That night, I found a small bird's beak in the driveway.
That night, I was a bird girl in my dream--
come on come on wings take flight!--

This morning the eggs were gone, the nest had been moved,
off kilter, no longer perfectly centered. I stretched
to tip it down, standing on toe to see in, but the nest
had come apart.
Cotton strings and lint floated to my feet.
Piles of feathers found in my hands.