Empty Nest: A Poem

Twigs wound into
a crown of thorns atop
a stray oak by the pantry window.
I am unaware.
Perhaps, a shutter of wings
disturbs my thoughts
but is soon lost in the steam of a tea kettle,
or an argument in the kitchen,
or the flicker of a twenty year old memory.
A lace curtain protects the outside
from what lies within where
I wander lost from
room to room, light dripping on me
as through a delicate sieve.
So if I might gaze out on a moon cut sky,
I could not reach through cold waved glass
and shake its perfect peace.
Only when dust litters the sunbeams
and I face neglected tasks of washing windows
and chasing away spiders,
do I lift the veil and find it.
First, I think of my neighbor
who collects them for her Christmas tree,
having 200 already, shellacked and preserved,
but then I remember with regret
that she moved long ago.