This Nest of Mine

It is now winter in my Canadian world, the ground and trees draped in pure white; and the wind is frigid cold- howling a song, yet, I bundle myself up for an ice-kissed walk. Into the forest crisp and crackling I stroll, to meander a solitary walker thinking; and bare trees groan in the north wind blowing, soon, I notice the abandoned birds nests hanging. Hanging in the forks of bare branches high in tall trees, last years birds nests hang abandoned leaving a rotting mess; of sticks, twigs, leaves, feathers and mud and whatnot, but, as I stand there I ponder these bird nests. Thinking this mess- is like my past memories, an assortment of ruin, decay, of pain and love twined; oh yes, I have woven my own nest of sorts, and it hangs from my memory swaying back and forth. I wish at times a great wind would blow it to pieces, but, I would probably miss the rotting mess; all those pieces of me entwined so delicately over time, for the strength of this nest of mine makes me who I am. _______________________ November 17, 2019 Poetry/Narrative/This Nest of Mine Copyright Protected, ID 19-1199-061-02 All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.