SPRING SENSES
By May Grant
Breeze still bitter,
Robin’s image jells like ice.
Sounds still muffled,
Robin’s music throbs a rhythm.
Homes still huddled,
Robin’s feather wafts from heaven.
Seeds still curling,
Robin tastes each worm anew.
Scents still buried,
Robin shouts
I’m Here,
I’m Love,
I’m You!
© 2011 May Cornelia Grant
May Cornelia Grant has been writing all her life, non-professionally. Her articles have appeared in numerous small magazines and newspapers.