The Season’s Rose

Robin’s found his lyrics;
flexes all his toes.
Sings! This little heart-throb.
Sings! The season’s rose.

Over frozen fields,
certain as it goes,
soft, and through the morning,
soft his music flows.

Red against the greyness
robin’s fire shows:
warmer than the sunrise;
warmer than a rose.

No one else is here
(Christmas, I suppose.)
Just a robin singing;
just a man who knows.

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2 thoughts on “The Season’s Rose

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