Even the Angels Wept
That wound left on my porch,
that red that made me shiver
was the baby robin which fell
from the nest in the corner.
Stared at the ball of flesh with horror
Unable to discern or stir, I stood—
Rooted to the cement,
with stumps made of oak wood.
Those beads of eyes permanently shut,
the lines of claws, the buds of nascent wings
which could not catch any wind
the hint of a beak never held a twig.
The tiny pink blob, to Earth I returned,
but left the red for the sky to stare
hoping that the angels wept
to bring the clouds to rain,
and wash the sinned stain.
Written 05/02/2016
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