The robin I live with
sings gorgeous songs but
only for me,
she dyes what were brown
feathers red and red
feathers blue,
worries for winter and her
little thatched nest
and can never sleep well at night,
she keeps her tree tidy but
spattered in moss,
and she stares out the window
all day with me,
and I don't think I'll ever ask
her why, because I know
she already
has plenty.