Best Intentions

I had the best intention

of crafting a particular poem,

quite artsy and all . . .

thought about it all the way home

but . . .

The nuthatch

has chosen to build a nest

in the hollow of the tree

behind our house.

Tuxedoed gray and black and white

the dapper bird

darts

           swoops

                              and

                                         stops.

It forays back and forth

from trunk to trunk

returning to

its

                     one

                      specially

                      selected

                       hollow.

Not to intrude

but . . .

Isn't the opening too large?

Isn't the hole tipped back so much

that rain will pour in

at the end of your busy day?

Isn't that bark

rather sharp and hard,

rather than soft and feathery,

not at all like a nursery?

And what are you seeking now

scurrying up and down

the arboreal avenue

of your nesting tree?

Have you forgotten

what you were up to

just a moment ago?

But my best intentions

are lost, as is most advice.

The nuthatch bustles down and up,

oblivious to gravity

and the gravity of its situation.