|Image by Theo Dapore|
Where are my robins?
Mornings I reach with spindly,
rigid limbs to bleached skies,
searching strength, hope of return,
lashed by winter’s rejection.
Imprisoned in cell pods red tattooed ink,
hope for restoration flutters blue – green redemption,
orange breasted ballets;
Oh, the chorus of my babies and not frigid flat notes of taunting winds. Comeback, my robins, and nest within my arms. I’m weary this lonely season.