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?