Empty Nest

In the silence the room’s four bare

walls compress, the carpet

trodden, the closet swept away


of the clothes she wears.

All the things that were hers,

that were clenched in time


and space, now occupy

a home of her own.

She lives without me now.


I pretend, in the unapologetic light,

to be the mother robin

unrepentant, even celebrant


of the fierce push from the nest.

But I am not.

Not until this riotous wind inside me


calms and falls away,

not until the threading of night

is more than darkness


will I stop asking,

as the poets have asked:

Are we ever spared the loss?