It was a cool morning in January
when I cracked my blinds
and peaked at the world I knew.
Bright breasted robin, perched in the azalea,
watched me dress and curse this life.
He did not sing, did not so much as move
as I dragged my feet and clutched my chest.
Bright breasted robin, soaring the skies,
always came back to make sure
each morning my lights turn back on.
He watched me tie myself to my bedpost,
hide away the razors, suffer through headaches
because I convinced myself I lost the aspirin…
It wasn't until a warm March morning
that I could open my blinds
and gaze upon the robin that sang me awake.
A nest, perhaps two feet from the glass,
perched on the limbs that clawed a child's dreams,
sat the bright breasted robin and three others:
A choir, A reminder, A hope.