Singing for the Spring, the robin hears,
it seems, and he responds. Daffodils
do their warm-ups in the breeze Continue reading “Waiting for Spring”
Dark leaves are tumbling like dexterous pigeons,
twisting round curls of air,
spinning into the soak of the grass Continue reading “Porlock”
The robin can sing, alright.
He outstares the stars
and fires his songs at them, Continue reading “Robin under the Lamppost”
Robin’s found his lyrics;
flexes all his toes.
Sings! This little heart-throb.
Sings! The season’s rose. Continue reading “The Season’s Rose”
Am I alive? Does the mountain,
from which the loose stone falls,
Does the mountain move?
Massive, impassive, I observe Continue reading “To a Robin on a Bird Table”
I met a little robin
all on Christmas Day.
He left his little footprints
in the snow along the way. Continue reading “The Talking Robin”