Goodnight, Moon

 
I.

A mockingbird nested
In the childbirth of my youth.
I don’t remember when
Just that its hatchlings
Demanded to be fed
Fear to survive.
I was scared so complied.
As moon cycles
They return each year
Constructing more nests,
And more hatchlings
Demanding to be fed.
Each spring multiplied
Their swollen eyes
And soft cartilage.  

II.

Last night I watched a waning crescent
its eyelid heavy with sleep
Stumble across the bedroom of
its celestial sphere.

Its gimlet eye also
Spied me.

III.

The nests emptied.
Instead of pruning
Their shelled crypt for growth
I unearthed it,
Burnt the archives
Exhumed the edicts
Left its womb
Unsown.  

IV.

Confessionals are boxes
Of darkness splintered
With just enough light
that repentant sin
can escape – and return
over, and over again.

V.

The biggest effect of fire
On wildlife is a forced change of habitat.
Relocation is essential to survival.
Except in wetlands,
Which aren’t likely to burn.
But, I live inland
So there's that.

VI.

I don’t plan to replant
Anytime soon.  
Maybe a year, or two.
Allow the flocks time
To relocate, erase
The flight pattern
Of their memory and
Generations of habit,  

Allow emptiness to expand –
The peaceful space to take root
leave the nest, return tenfold.

VII.

Goodnight, moon.
~