In song to the moon
at end of day
Robin chirps
his roundelay,
the lyrics rising
plaintively:
What fools, what fools
these mortals be!
OK, dear reader, not all. Not all.
Thanks to Shakespeare for his ever-timely words,
and thanks to Robin for holding still.
Hey, cold robin!
It’s winter! Did you know?
You think “early bird” means
worming in the snow?
I get that winter’s
the first sign of spring
but you’re pushing
that red-breasted harbinger thing.
Icy visage
deck as mirror
transparent message:
winter’s still here.
Encased in numbing
frozen air
the world succumbs
to dark despair.
But wait! What errant
buoy is this?
What harbinger
of warming bliss?
Why does it glower
all grumpy of feather
as though I ordered
this lousy weather?
Yes, robins, dear reader! A red-breasted throng of them on the heels of freezing rain. And all frowning. What did they expect? Palm trees?
Hey, little bug! Do you know why you’re green?
So you can sit on a leaf and not be seen!
Yet here you are
appendicular
neon
on my screen.
Where are your bug wits? You should be more sly
hiding from hungry robin’s eye.
Is it just
that you must
touch
that raspberry sky?
Oddments 