, , ,

Softly and slowly the spring bud grows
to fill the waiting branches,
As warming rains replace cold snows
the promise of spring advances.

The Robin, perched upon the bow
watches the worm of choice
unsure, with ever watchful eye
her song has lost its voice.

Could it be she feels the loss
wears the guilt and weighs the cost?
As April showers drench and spread
can survival erase the Robin’s dread?