Cupped in the crook of bare-knobbed
branches wrapped in blue sky, I catch
the remnants of a nest—its dull ragged emptiness
quivering in winter’s wind.
How did I miss all the feeding and fledging
in that season of greening? Only seeing
what I set out to see: soft sprouting
needles, roseate cones.
Look up. A bird, a blossom,
your father’s unsteady hand reaching out
for forgiveness. What is gone will startle you
with its absence.
_
Nancy Huggett is a settler descendant who writes, lives, and caregives on the unceded, unsurrendered Territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation (Ottawa, Canada). Thanks to Firefly Creative, Merritt Writers, and not-the-rodeo poets, she has work in Citron Review, EVENT, Full Mood, Literary Mama, One Art, Pinhole, Gone Lawn, and Waterwheel Review.
© 2023, Nancy Huggett
Halfway Down the Stairs 