The Robin called
And I looked out
From windows balmed
By a Summer January.
His little flushed chest
And my crimson vest
Went well together, so I thought.

He hopped along a twig
And dug for buds on the barren wood
Mourning that Winter long forgotten
In the cycle of death and movement.
He called out his call
And as the days fall
I try to speak to him, so I do.

The slow little bird isn't
Some prophet of the new dawn
But a straggler, slow with the weight
Of his heavy, fateful wings.
He flies to the sky
Follows my eye
To the sunlight I'm watching, so I am.

Sad to see, the true spirit of Spring
So misunderstood, so anticipated
Like the robin, Spring is not happy.
Spring is an epitaph of the lost days.
I wish he'd come back
And he will when the track
Of the year's memories lead him to me, mourning once more,
So they do.