The Unhoused Wren

In the garage, behind the paint cans stacked,

I found it, wood half-planed, its promise cracked.

The birdhouse, pine, still smelled of sawdust fine,

but one whole wall was gone, no careful line.

A crooked roof, a perch for birds unseen,

it leaned against a box, a forgotten scene.

I’d bought the kit, the little nails, the glue,

imagined wrens, a hopeful, bright debut.

Now dust motes clung to empty, open space,

a tiny home that never found its grace.

No nest. No eggs. Just splinters, dry and frayed.

A small ambition, quietly unmade.