And how does the turtle feel as she covers her eggs
with the sweep of her feet,
then leaves them for the world to take care of?
Mysteries, Four of the Simple Ones
New and Selected Poems, Volume Two
Last spring, after her fledglings left the nest,
mama dove hung around for days, waiting.
She watched me through the kitchen window,
woeful eyes fixed on my hands, awash
in soapy bubbles bearing rainbows.
I didn’t see her babies again, nor did she, I suppose—
only the hawk circling in the distance.
Fretting, I struggled to trust nature’s caring
just like I do each time I send my words soaring,
out into the wide, wild world.