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While gathering wood one autumn day
To make a stack beside the stove,
I spied a nest along the way
Of back and forth and to and fro.

November’s wind had forced it down.
I took the time to pick it up,
This robin’s nest upon the ground,
Then held it gently with my glove.
	
I looked for answers up in the elm
To see from where it came dislodged.
I held the craft upon my hand,
And spun it round in wonderment.

To weave a cup from twigs so fine,
Stole bits of sage and lavender,
Small tufts of moss and battered twine,
Woolen yarn from an old sweater.

To darn a home with such keen eye
Must be a bird of graceful stock.
Her handiwork beneath the sky
Must earn her praises among the flock.

For holly berries pierced the spray
Of saw tooth grass and tangled weed.
A lofty home with leafy shade
Of downy-tucked and winding reed.

She worked o’er treetop and chimney
To gather many a splendid thing.
She sang a whimsical melody
Of peaceful groves and feathered wing.

Once bright blue eggs had filled this nest
Through starry nights, mid- summer’s storm.
All pressed beneath her scarlet breast;
She kept them safe from snare and thorn.

She raised her clutch on branches high
With fitful scorn and lessons shrill.
Then spread her wings to let them fly;
A prideful scarlet bosom swell.

Now autumn’s red has left the trees.
Cold winter’s breath is on the sill.
The rustling of a withered leaf
Holds no sweet song nor feather quill.

When spring returns on budding leaves
To grace this farm with robin’s wing
Thickets will flush with hearts afire
And geese will sift upon the mire.

The earth will thaw as days grow long.
Come May, again I’ll hear her song
And all kinds of fluttering about
While turning blossoms inside out.

The robin’s work will start again
With tufts of moss and battered twine,
For chance will find her way to me.
A nest, she’ll build amid my tree.
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