Twenty Robins

by Daniel David


In this core of winter,
when the snow is brittle,
like old, kitchen linoleum,
and the wood stands naked
and shivering in a hollow room,
its splendid, green gown
now hanging in the closet,
 
I am startled by twenty robins,
a sudden blur of wings and beaks,
rushing from sprig to sprig,
fixed upon the tiny, violet berries
gathered in the evergreen, the bush
I considered cutting from the thicket.
Not now! Never!
 
For a moment I’m fooled,
the windows thrown open.
Spring! Spring!
But these robins’ red throats
are strangely silent, their songs
neatly stacked in the cupboard
like the best teacups.
 
These robins are heedless of
their bright, summer nurseries,
the precious, azure gemstones
swaddled in pine needle cradles.
These robins forget their cravings,
their usual feasts of crawling things
shelved in the frozen cellar.
 
So preoccupied with their meal,
I am invisible, a dry, useless weed
or just another, inconsequential sparrow.
Sometimes I’d prefer a broken bone or a split lip
to the deep, purplish indifference,
but this time, I find a perverse comfort
in the robins’ neglect​.