Migration

The sun has returned, and so have the birds. Every morning, they call out from branch to branch as if it were the first day of creation, which, in a sense, it is. On a separate note, I only recently noticed that, until today, the last post on my blog concerned Ash Wednesday, and the first, Easter. How odd, to see the entirety of Lent encompassed in one little place.


Migration

I never thought that I
was like unto a bird;
my wings are not as spry,
my warble rarely heard,

and though we both escape
our customary nest
when Winter strokes the nape
and clutches at the chest,

my bird will come upon
the turning of the year,
while I am fled and gone
and loath to reappear,

and so I shall abide,
and never bird to be;
he travels as the tide;
I linger in the sea.