They flutter through the canopy with care,
To gather moss and twigs from branch and ground;
Then lift their fragile treasures through the air,
Where patient hands and quiet skill are found.
These expert craftsmen shape a home from scratch,
And weave the scattered forest into form;
A cradle where the hidden brood may hatch,
Secured against the bitter wind and storm.
Yet safe within the sanctuary’s bound,
The growing wings prepare to take the sky;
Until at last, above the empty ground,
The fledglings leave the woven boughs and fly.
The cycle turns as seasons disappear:
A house rebuilt with patient love each year.
Courtney Bosworth's Blog 