|Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry|
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Here at the return of spring, I will again wait
for the family of robins that faithfully
nests in the white pine tree in my backyard.
I will leash the dogs, take them down the street
to relieve themselves instead at the brook,
keep the yard free of predators.
I too keep my distance, warned one year
by the feisty father who dive-bombed
at my head for getting too close.
Now I mow a wide circle around the tree,
tall grass a haven for the fledglings
that will eventually leave the nest.
It's almost comical how I go to such trouble
to protect what I consider vulnerable
while ignoring that which wounds.
I will watch the fledglings in the binoculars
my father once used when he lost
incredible sums at the horse race track.
I will watch the mother-robin for weeks
bring worms and grubs to feed hungry,
gaping mouths that never seem satisfied.
And suddenly one morning, they'll be gone,
leaving me only their nest of woven
dry pine needles lined with dog fur,
the tufts I was sure to leave for them.