Why Poetry?
A robin comes
to my yard in spring,
breast like sun,
bead-black eyes,
slate-blue wings.
He cocks his head,
this way and that,
listens for breakfast,
grubs and insects
rustling in fresh soil.
No promise in those eyes
how long he’ll stay.
He may follow other birds,
songs from somewhere far away
muffled in the gusting wind.
He may leave when cold
begins to mute the green,
or morning frost spreads
sparkling icing
on the ground.
Winter comes, steals
my memory of spring.
But I return to this poem’s page.
The robin never flies away.
– Sarah Edwards
