Where the Robins fly

One morning looking out my window,
A Robin perched looking in at me.
A rumpled feathered creature
In the boughs of a Tulip tree.

Its beak was old and weathered,
Chipped pecking at hardened seeds.
Its scaly legs and talons,
Dried and withered reeds.

I smiled remembering spring,
When it had come the year before.
To fly against my window pane,
Or sit chirping above my door.

To me it was an omen,
A gift from my distant past,
I wondered where it had been til now
And if this visit would be the last.

The Robin held still its feathered head,
Not a breath of life could I discern,
It continued to examine me with eyes,
As if from me an answer it would learn.

I think it knew its time was near,
That it would rest on the ground below.
To become part of the fertile earth,
Where wild flowers each spring would grow.

In an instant it flew out of sight,
A dart of color across the sky
Where the soul of man will ascend,
Carried away where the Robins fly.

©2010, Donald Harbour

9 thoughts on “Where the Robins fly

  1. Beautifully crafted and depthful poem, Donald. How well I can picture this robin….on the journey we all must eventually take.


  2. Compared with the Booby, this might be the Last Waltz (sorry!). A lovely poem Donald, and softly spoken reminder that all things must end. I notice you have an intriguing new header pic.


  3. I will not touch one feather of this one, solemn promise. Love that last verse, and all the words you chose to get me there. I too, know a fat old robin whose wing no longer springs to its rightful placement, but droops just a bit as though it knows the journey is nearing completion. We have had several conversations, and I am always pleased to see him again, each time. Somehow I find hope in his continued presence.



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