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 

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