It's the sharp smell of saturated soil
Watching a puff-chested robin pluck a worm from the earth.
Violet tickled feet hop the spring marsh,
And sharp yellow trills sound like the nearby
Rambling brook.

They come along in mostly threes and fives.

Time ensconces her like petals.
Scrolling through one life we see
Petals wrapping left, or right:

Flying forward, hear the chickies cheeping
She feeds their yawning beaks a worm
The cowbird, now, she's noticing

Rustling petals tell their story:
Macon is her winter home.
The southern air smells slightly sweeter

Flipping through the days and seasons
Petals welcome blackened fruits
The fetus of inimic feature
Is pregnant with shadows of the past.

It's how her collapsing body made room
For everything that has been.

And heading eggwards, backyard feeders
Summers spent in Pennsylvania
Followed rounds and first palms ever...

Waketh I, to pungent earth!

Baby robins are good-natured
I suppose in life, they must commit some grave crime
So say to all these blackened fruits of mine:
Trophies for participation.
Help me down into my place
Be the wet-nurse of my