Brutally, the robin
bites the ground, digs
at the sharp grass with stubborn
instinct. The worms are dead
in the frailty of winter. Sorrow
blossoms easily, like feathers
on snow. I have no memory
of your hands. Only the difficult
tilt of your head (your jaw as stubborn
as a bird’s beak) flutters to the surface
of my thoughts. It is January, inside this house.
I am steady until the robin ends his futile movements
and flies into the woods, away from my clouded window.
In the distance, even the specks of his wings vanish
though my yard clutches a few stray feathers;
brown against the indecent white of snow.
© 2007 Christine Klocek-Lim