Nests

in our eclipse of age
we imagined calm bliss
in soft—empty nests
of a retired tranquility
ascending peaceful airs
of justified self-interest
but in the silvery hoars
of these calibrated years
God guided us deep into
hollows of simpler bliss
born in the renovations
of our old creaking home
repurposed by life’s toils
into a warm—modest nest
of our branching hearts
and now—our tree of life
lovingly sprinkles shade
over a far loftier family