Nests

“I want to write a poem,” says my mom, “about the empty nests in the bare trees.”

“You know they used to be little homes,” she continues. She pauses. 

I think. I picture a little nest nestled in a haggard oak tree. I image a few pieces of silver garland from last year's Christmas tree weaved into the stems of dead quackgrass … oval blue eggs (it a robin’s nest) tucked in a trio … featherless baby birds with big closed, bluish eyes covering most of their little heads … small chirps as food of crushed worms arrives from above … an empty nest a few weeks into June … there’s a lot here for me to write her poem, but this is not my idea. It is hers. She should write it.

 “Why not write the poem?” I ask. I think of my own uncompleted poem, the one about a red cardinal signing from the tip-top of another tree one cold January morning, a few winters ago.

"I don't have the words."

I greatly doubt this. While I firmly believe that anyone can create, I believe even more firmly that my mom’s creativity exists far beyond what she thinks she can do. Her creative streaks and ideas percolated constantly when I was kid. Just this past fall, she painted pumpkins with creative faces, and one pumpkin turned into a clown face. I call that creative.

“Why not just write the same thing you told me, this story, then see what words really pop out at you. Maybe those words will make your poem.” Huh. Maybe I should take my own advice.

The conversation moved onto other things. She didn’t say she was going to sit down and write her poem, but she also didn’t say she wasn’t.

It’s been a few weeks since we talked about her poem. I don’t know if she’s written it yet. I still haven’t finished mine. I understand, but in a few weeks, I will ask her when she's going to write it.