Grace Dion

Babies cozy deeply into nests
of woven people;
if ma sags, auntie blooms,
filling in the space.
Grandma´s wide apron
beneath it all
catches anyone who falls.

Twenty-somethings join with mates
(they learned from tinker toys,
stick and spool); pop some babes
into the fleshy nest
and for a while, everybody rests.

When the babes fly,
the toys might split ---
he to a more colorful spool,
she to the rocky road:
ice cream and freedom.
Each reclaims the rose
that nesting froze.

No nests for the olden ones;
their people unravel,
loose them solitary on the wind:
they spin like light
on the shiny grass of August,
wafting toward the final sting
on some insect´s see-through wing.