The Robins
The robins sing at dawn,
their throats open to the sky.
I sit by the window,
their song feels like prayer.
Branches bend under them,
the air holds steady.
They flit from fence to ground,
scratching for crumbs.
I think of those gone,
maybe they return in wings.
Red breast shining,
a song of memory.
Sometimes a warning,
sometimes a comfort.
Their eyes hold truths,
older than mine.
They return each year,
faithful as grief,
faithful as hope.
Never forgetting the garden,
never forgetting the door.
I wish I was like them,
always returning,
no matter the storm.
Singing sorrow and joy,
a song that will not die
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
Robin's the bird of Spring. They always return to bring some messages to whomever may see and hear. Good job.