The Robbin's Song

Each spring I listen
for the Robin’s song,
hoping and straining
to hear it’s unique trill
which lifts my spirit,
renews my will.

When I was a young man
walking the woods
listening to the sparrows
squawking in the bush,
watching the cardinals
flit in the snowy brush
singing their songs in the
morning’s blush.

It was the Robin’s song
that said winter is past,
spring would be here
with its color and warmth.
I never forgot how pleasing it was.

Through the years of worry and work
when doubts of survival touched my soul,
never knowing what madness the day would bring
I listened for spring and the Robin to sing.

Like a horse that’s burdened
with a wagon’s load,
plowing ahead step by step,
never knowing when it will end,
expecting the rights to become wrong,
listening then to the Robin’s song.

When nature took the good things away
leaving of life an empty loft,
nothing existed that brightened the day
and darkness settled into my bones.
I remember what I learned
when walking as a young man
listening to the Robin’s song
until the sadness fades away.

P. J. Wolf

Treasures


Today I stopped to watch
a squirrel scurry from tree to tree
carrying acorns in its mouth
burying them in a squirrel pantry.

Its coat fluffy with winter fur
intent upon its work;
driven for what was needed
to live through cold and snow.

Looking around I see the earth
bedding down for the frosted months,
brown and grey with little green,
waiting for its coat of white.

The wind picks up, the rain begins.
Hurrying toward my warm home,
I think about the dark days
during winter’s blast, bone chilling cold.

Wondering whether it will be
a long and dreaded interval
before the crocuses raise their heads
through the melting snow.

When did I lose
the joy of looking at winter’s fare
full of fun, sledding down hills,
snowball fights and snowmen?

Those buried treasures of my youth
never to be lived again,
except deep in my memory
waiting patiently for new birth.

P. J. Wolf