Ah, we must make nests.
Life is a bare limbed branch
through which the winds move,
or a flute hollowed out for music,
or a ravine, open at each end,
that the wind finds its singing voice.
in its various stages of undress,
is as a tree exposed to the elements,
or a horse unbroken,
resisting the taming,
or the directing.
Yes, life is loose, as leaves undone in a tempest,
that we are to make nests for ourselves,
and not live exposed.
But with gifted tools,
and materials made for weaving –
like the birds,
who know what to do
though they’ve hardly been taught –
we’re to build with our hands
small abodes for living,
and make a home in the wind,
though it blow without ceasing.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry