Bird's nest

Here in the ivy,
cupped, a light,
an aery, faery thing;

no artist could make better,
no mother could do more;

so much intelligence,
so much love;

every threaded fibre
a flight of love.

Is it fulfilled, or waiting,
or plundered of its life?

too precious to destroy,
this cradle of intelligence.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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