After My Daughter Moved to LA

Her room is bare
except for indigo stars
that dot the ceiling,
a photo of cousins
on a pine shelf.
Useless to her now—
trophies, beanie babies,
soccer ball—
stuffed in boxes
in the garage.
She doesn’t know
when she’ll be back.

Beyond the window
the limbs of the orange tree
she’d chosen at fifteen
are fruit-heavy,
and I wonder if
the hummingbird nest,
a threaded round dab of gray,
will hold.
But the mother grasps
what’s at stake: the two
pale eggs beneath her,
and the beaks, sharp
as fountain pens
that will some day
point to the sky,
undaunted.

Published
Redwood Writers Literary Review 2023