There had been nothing but air.
Openness gave itself to shape
In the eyes of the orioles.
And the building commenced.
Shards of grass came first,
Some blunted at both ends,
Strand upon strand,
Woven with tact and needle beak,
Sewing with their face fronts.
The shape slowly took the glory
And then the mud,
Sealing the sides and crowning the rim,
An earthy finish fit for wild kings.
Inside are four blue jewels,
Royal and round,
I do not weave my home.
And so I cannot imagine it unraveling,
Thread by thread,
Ushered by the wind,
Pulling away the shape and shadow,
Until only light remains.