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