In spring, children welcome
the robins by tying bits

of white cloth to the limbs of trees
but soon the birds are everywhere

and nobody cares except maybe
an old woman who cries out

with delight – “Look, look – robins
pecking at the grass!” Her face

is withered, her green eyes dulled
nearly to gray, but she points

and if you come too close
she’ll poke at you with bony fingers.

“Look,” she’ll say but you’ll see nothing
but the ghost of wind rippling through wet grass .

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, 
Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.