They were everywhere, the robins,
the morning light rose over snow,
snow over everything. How the flakes
had fallen big as plates in the afternoon
and in the night covering the fields of
fresh black open earth burying the fat
beetles and the slow worms under cold
sheets of white leaving this flock of early
migrants, feathers fluffed and hungry,
looking about, perched in the chilly dawn, waiting.
I want to ask them in for soup, offer tea
by the fire, a soft robe to wrap about
the weary wing. I want to tell them I’m sorry…
sorry for the strange weathers that lure
them north too soon, tricking them into
the depths of this quixotic winter.
Small bright friend, singer of spring,
even so, welcome home.