My mother always called it a nest，

    the multi-colored mass harvested

    from her six daughters' brushes，

    and handed it to one of us

    after she had shaped it， as we sat in front

    of the fire drying our hair.

    She said some birds steal anything， a strand

    of spider's web， or horse's mane，

    the residue of sheep's wool in the grasses

    near a fold

    where every summer of her girlhood

    hundreds nested.

    Since then I've seen it for myself， their genius-

    how they transform the useless.

    I've seen plastics stripped and whittled

    into a brilliant straw，

    and newspapers-the dates， the years-

    supporting the underweavings.

    2

    As tonight in our bed by the window

    you brush my hair to help me sleep， and clean

    the brush as my mother did， offering

    the nest to the updraft.

    I'd like to think it will be lifted as far

    as the river， and catch in some white sycamore，

    or drift， too light to sink， into the shaded inlets，

    the bank-moss， where small fish， frogs， and insects

    lay their eggs.

    Would this constitute an afterlife？

    The story goes that sailors， moored for weeks

    off islands they called paradise，

    stood in the early sunlight

    cutting their hair. And the rare

    birds there， nameless， almost extinct，

    came down around them

    and cleaned the decks

    and disappeared into the trees above the sea.