At the juncture of two branches,
Blown by the wind and bounced about,
Sits a small nest to take its chances
And try to ride the winter out.

Simple and barren, mud and leaves,
Twigs and yet something else besides.
Jostled by the stiff Northern breeze.
Who can spy what soul in their hides?

Is that tinsel waving madly
On the too early budding tree?
Frost will surely nip it badly.
Far too optimistic are thee.

But did the cold bird decorate,
Choosing tinsel from other trash,
To please his tiny, feathered mate
With silver woven in their stash?

I venture closer, I must know.
Is it a trick of light or true?
Is tinsel woven in or no?
Surely, such a wise bird could do.

YES, tinsel from our Christmas time,
Chosen by some light-hearted bird.
Woven in the sweet nest sublime
And then undone without a word.

Unraveled by the frigid winds
Of the long, lonely winter nights.
Is it like mere string, as it bends,
Or is tinsel bird’s soul delight?

Silver sparkles under the Moon,
Chosen with purpose by the bird?
Decoration fades all too soon.
Wind whips, tinsel flies, all unheard.

—

Frances Rove is fifty-eight-year-old attorney on disability due to bipolar disorder who is writing a memoir and haas written poetry and short stories since grade school. She belongs to the National Association of Memoir Writers and Mensa and enjoys advocacy for mental health and adoption issues and for animals.