The Birds Build Nests

The birds build nest from found objects
up in the eaves of my house
where I have no place to call a home
mine.
Fragile window-frames of splintered straws,
postcard door fluttering off its hinges.
I stack these pieces on top of each other,
ring the patio table in old newspapers,
and build myself something small, contained,
a space to fill up with just me
and leave no part abandoned.
When winter cracks against the garden,
steps up to the windows, climbs the brickwork,
I understand better why the birds all left
when the leaves turned gold.
These nests are skins for the shedding,
a stripping out of last year’s hide,
before the cold can come and take.