Nest out of the tree,
my guess, made by goldfinches,
I’ve seen them sing here.

Deer pass on this path
and sleep in tamped-down places,
birds build nests of fur.

Empty for winter,
the locked together twig nest
full of meadowsweet.

Invention inside—
birds nest over the back door,
the sun, up and down.

Hopeful is the nest,
like a palm in the spring tree,
holding the whole world.