Poetry by Christine Colasurdo
The day the boy with gap-toothed smile and round-rim
glasses got lost my neighbor ripped the vine
that hid the nest with one blue egg. He wanted
to look for frogs, some said, he loved the trees—
but now his mom just wants him home. The egg
now wants a mother. Should I ask or simply take it?
I want that nest. But more: I want that nest
the way it was, with doves, and shade, with leaves
like love to hide a life and keep it safe;
the neighbor leaves it dangling from the eaves;
spring wind and night-time rain untie each plait
till what remains no longer wants for care—
it’s not a nest in clematis but weeds and twigs
that other birds or those same birds might braid
another springtime day. To want is like
to pray is like to wait. What flies beyond
destroys desire—and leaves, like ashes, faith.
Portland native Christine Colasurdo is the author of Return to Spirit Lake: Life and Landscape at Mount St. Helens as well as Golden Gate National Parks: A Photographic Journey. She teaches calligraphy and creative writing at the Multnomah Arts Center in Portland. To learn more, visit www.christinecolasurdo.com.