The Robins

The Robins

The robins sing at dawn,

their throats open to the sky.

I sit by the window,

their song feels like prayer.

Branches bend under them,

the air holds steady.

They flit from fence to ground,

scratching for crumbs.

I think of those gone,

maybe they return in wings.

Red breast shining,

a song of memory.

Sometimes a warning,

sometimes a comfort.

Their eyes hold truths,

older than mine.

They return each year,

faithful as grief,

faithful as hope.

Never forgetting the garden,

never forgetting the door.

I wish I was like them,

always returning,

no matter the storm.

Singing sorrow and joy,

a song that will not die