The nest

I took the picture

Always, there is this impending cloud.

I think about the wonder of life,
the nest of the nightingale inside the thorny leaves of the succulent,
the magic of blending in it
to protect that incipient life,
encircled in little and fragile eggs.

I think about that yellow-chest tiny body,
all bloated,
guarding its greatest good.
A sense of life.
I think about a sign of life still dancing, no matter what.

When confusion captivates me
and I would like to rest on a white shore,
like a tired and dizzy whale,
not to think -as my thoughts have no way out
not to feel -as my emotions are too pressing,

I look at the hills out there: their green is lucent and undaunted:
a blast of joy imbuing inside small things.

When the burden of chaos is unreasonable,
I think about the pajama I wore tonight.
The scent of good.
The fresh sheets.
The apple muffins.
The hands of my mother.

I think I am there as I am.