A Reflective Robin
A roving robin settled on a newel post
abutting a black window on our deck
and faced his face beak-to-beak. Narcissus?
Our mythic thought but reflects ourselves.
He perched sentry-straight for two days
straight, befouling from behind the railing
with white lime streaked by red-gooey berries,
in steady drips like afterthoughts. Perhaps
an ardent suitor, we fancied, poetically,
as in innocuous silliness—as if his plight
meant but a conceit of mistakes in love
our own regrets suggested. Or a patience
lesson, since he stood so still we wondered
for what purpose except gaudy flair
served a yellow ring around black beady eyes
that look but never tell? Was his red-breast
sunrise or sunset, or just the rouge peaches
are supposed to be according to pictures
pasted on their crates? The deluded robin
seemed to teach us gratitude to have aged
past madness in mating with all its fighting,
but we’ve also lived past reason’s certitude.
Once we’d have spent hours in our days
shooing him hence to pursue the season’s
better business, but still smart enough now
to know we’re no wiser we preferred not
to upset chickadees and their allies
that flutter in like lively spirits to snatch
up black oil seeds they peck open elsewhere
beyond the view of brooding creatures
who, after all, got kicked out of paradise
for choosing reason beyond their business.
abutting a black window on our deck
and faced his face beak-to-beak. Narcissus?
Our mythic thought but reflects ourselves.
He perched sentry-straight for two days
straight, befouling from behind the railing
with white lime streaked by red-gooey berries,
in steady drips like afterthoughts. Perhaps
an ardent suitor, we fancied, poetically,
as in innocuous silliness—as if his plight
meant but a conceit of mistakes in love
our own regrets suggested. Or a patience
lesson, since he stood so still we wondered
for what purpose except gaudy flair
served a yellow ring around black beady eyes
that look but never tell? Was his red-breast
sunrise or sunset, or just the rouge peaches
are supposed to be according to pictures
pasted on their crates? The deluded robin
seemed to teach us gratitude to have aged
past madness in mating with all its fighting,
but we’ve also lived past reason’s certitude.
Once we’d have spent hours in our days
shooing him hence to pursue the season’s
better business, but still smart enough now
to know we’re no wiser we preferred not
to upset chickadees and their allies
that flutter in like lively spirits to snatch
up black oil seeds they peck open elsewhere
beyond the view of brooding creatures
who, after all, got kicked out of paradise
for choosing reason beyond their business.
