"What do you plan to do with your one, wild, precious life?" -Mary Oliver

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Silent Morning

The baby robin is dead.
Its red breast and open beak
lie sullied in the dirt under the nest.

We could surmise a reach too far
over the rim
of the woven grass.
Or blame the wind—
the gust that took my hat and toppled
a robust jade like a plastic cup
could surely fling a fledgling from a shallow nest.

We shall not blame the mother who did nothing
for three weeks but fuss over the baby
and protect the yard from the cock and the crow.
Who sat on the nest and brought food
to the yawning beak
and filled the mornings with song
and industrious labor
for naught.

8 comments:

Talli Roland said...

What an evocative poem, Yvonne. Thank you!

jbchicoine said...

I'm afraid the baby robins in our lilac bush have suffered a similar, mysterious fate. So sad, but you make it sound so sadly beautiful...

Anthony Duce said...

Wonderful poem… These realities of fate, they bring forth feelings we keep in check waiting for mornings like this.

Anne Gallagher said...

We just lost a baby bird too. So sad. But your writing is so beautiful.

Tricia J. O'Brien said...

There is something so sad about finding a baby bird too soon fallen from a nest. haunting poem, Yvonne.

Liza said...

There is so much fullness in this story, so much more in addition to the baby robin. It makes my heart hurt. Well done.

Yvonne Osborne said...

Talli,
Thank you so much!

JB,
Ahh, they like the lilac bushes too. Thanks.

Anthony,
Thank you. I was so sad when I saw it in the dirt, flung from its nest.

Anne,
Thank you!

Tricia,
I know. And from three initial eggs, none survived.

Yvonne Osborne said...

Liza,
Thank you so much. It brought out all these feelings, as Tony said. It made my heart hurt too.