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3-2-2012


Richard K. Williams

The first Saturday of March
And I don’t feel very stellar.
Today it’s dove day at the bird feeder.
Last Tuesday nearly fifty robins dominated the scene
but they disappeared as swiftly
as the other signs of spring.


I find it hard to recognize
my own bizarre behavior
the same way you don’t see yours.


I suppose I could spray paint
your name in big block letters
on some highway overpass.
But that wouldn’t make my life a metaphor
or make you love me anymore.


My back is aching from shoveling snow
and my head is muddy from the beers
I had at the pub, on my way home
from the other pub, where
I spent most of last night
missing you.


But the beer didn’t help me understand
why you vanished, like the other
signs of spring.
Or, if the weather of your love
Would turn from cold, to warm
toward me again.


I now realize I was mistaken.
There is still one robin left
standing beneath the feeder
up to his red breast in snow.


And somehow, as I watch him
through my kitchen window
I understand, exactly how he feels.

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