Nest Poem by Shaun McGurgan

Off course from the frail music
sought by words
And the path that almost always claims the journey.

In pursuit of a more oblique rhythm
creating mostly its own geography.

The mind is an old crow
who knows only to gather dead twigs
then take them back to the vacancy
between the branches of the parent tree
and entwine them around the emptiness
with silence and unfailing patience
until what was fallen, withered an lost
is now set to fill with dreams
as a nest.