Old Old Nest

His father is still away, still dying on his feet for my bread, And I, the mother of a man, must open my arms for the millionth time. This man at my door must share my children’s bread, He must bathe with my water and drink it too. Before I forget to love him, he begs, "I have nowhere." Then, this man at my door becomes my son again, He has walked the world and marveled many homes, And still hasn’t the means for his own. The old, old nest is falling apart, And a benevolent God knows not to send the rain. The paint peels, and the roof raises at a single breath. There is no room for a man in the womb. But my first bird’s wings are broken again, He does not know the blue of the sky nor the proud walk of men. He drags only, pitiful at my door, He has not known love, at least not the kind that stays. This man is my son, his face is tired, And his knees weak. He has worked, and his fingers show, But all men do not reap on the same sun. This nest is his father’s; In it he will know warmth again, He will collect the logs, He will build the fire. This is my son; this man is my son.