Feathering My Own Nest

Mother & eggs   I woke up the other day to realize I’d put all my eggs into one basket—my former partner’s. While my own remains empty. I’ve spent too many hours gazing out my rear window, looking after, and waiting–expecting a soufflé she hasn’t the inclination or recipe for.

Time to pick myself up, dust off my feathers, and rebuild my own nest.

Lay a few eggs.

Hatch my own life.

I’m fully capable of, not only omelets, custards, and souffles, but of whatever else my dreamy little mind wants to concoct.

Time to move on again.

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in the Grove

grove 2

A grove of trees consoles me from the opposite side of the park outside my patio. Five trees as one. So, even though I feel completely solitary on this day of golden light, I remember. It’s been said that we’re never really alone. Especially not in a world of more than a billion people. Neighbors reside so closely above and beside me that  draw my blinds in early evening. Reminds me of the convent where I struggled with feeling alone while living in a five-storied building with two hundred other women. My excuse then was that we weren’t allowed to talk to one another, except during brief periods of recreation. Otherwise, we observed Silence.

I yearned to talk.

To be seen and heard.

We stood alongside one another in rigid line, bumping elbows. We obediently did our best to ignore one another and stay focused upon an invisible god.

Though I no longer have to, I keep Silence again and live alone with my two cats.

Except for the grove of five, who keep watch over me from across the lawn.