Robins

(1881) / Artist:  Ida Waugh (d. 1919)

Robins

Today I awaken to their whinny,

blue sky beyond my window,

white light pouring through the panes.

According to the calendar

the equinox transpired a spell before,

but  they’ve stayed silent;

seeking in the snow for weeks

while Winter’s held the world

still, tight in his fist. 

(Is he, at last, losing his grip?)

So, I wonder now at their timing,

pondering the paradox: 

(chicken or egg?)

Has the season birthed their song

or do the robins sing spring into extance?

PSC/2014-Apr

   

Written for 2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 1 - A beginning and/or ending poem (Two for Tuesday)