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 strand1
of spider's web， or horse's mane，
the residue2 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 whittled3
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， moored4 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.