Harbingers

Of the two harbingers of spring,

I much prefer the robin;

for what does a groundhog know of seasons,

having lain asleep and dormant

these winter months under frozen ground,

growing lean and lightheaded,

sleep still on his mind even as he

pokes his nose out, cautiously,

and, fearing his own shadow,

runs for cover, afraid,

returning below once more to pluck up

the courage to try again in six weeks – perhaps;

must I, who would crawl below my own covers,

afraid, trust my awakening to him?

No, I much prefer the robin,

chip-chirping on my garden fence,

his brown back and rust-red breast

blending into the weathered boards,

like me, grown old and warped by winter's snow,

awakened now by springtime’s jubilant call;

he knows the seasons, fat now on southern worms,

busy these long cold months preparing to return,

unafraid of shadows and the late winter storm

that coats him, preened and puffed and huddled for warmth;

he knows the seasons, this robin,

the lengthening of days and the work ahead,

the urgency of living, awake and unafraid.