A Rusty Echo

The robin, bold with rusty breast,

He hops back to the empty nest.

Last spring, a flurry, chirp, and song,

Now just a silence, all year long.

He lands, a feather on the bough,

And cocks his head, says, "Where are thou?"

The little ones, the hungry cries,

Reflected only in his eyes.

The branches sway, a gentle creak,

He finds a seed between his beak.

A memory stirs, a half-formed call,

But winter's touch has claimed it all.

The nest remains, a woven cup,

Though summer dreams are broken up.

He sings a note, a simple plea,

For things that were, and used to be.

He flies away, a flash of red,

The robin gone, the silence spread.

But something stays, a warmth remains,

Of future spring, and sunlit rains.