Your eyelashes sag
from the weight of bird nests.
The blue you thought was sky
are Robin eggs.
You refuse to sleep or blink
afraid to tumble the nests.
As you succumb to exhaustion
the babies fledge and fly
to your bookcase,
then leave greenish-white droppings
on your leather bound copy
of Leaves Of Grass.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 