Friday, April 10, 2015


He is quite dandy, in his orange waistcoat,
cocking his head as if listening to the field in the distance,
and to me in the house at the same time.

He dusts off his brown jacket, waving up and down,
though he may be trying to get my attention
with his gesticulation.

He opens his mouth, then closes it,
as if he needed to rethink what he might say
to me in his next breath.

He needn’t try so hard, as I’ve heard it all before,
in years past when he came back from
his winter travels to warm climes.

Sing, Robin. I’ve been waiting for you
to tell me it’s time once again
to begin.

Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse

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