A Robin Laments
By Larry Linville
Why was I born a robin
and inherited these robin genes?
I just can’t seem to keep myself
from arriving early at all scenes.
When I get there nothing’s ready.
It’s dark, and everything is cold.
Then I sit and wait for others
and it’s really getting very old.
What are they doing that makes them late?
Don’t they ever set their alarm?
And when they finally show up here
they try to demonstrate their charm.
I’d give up my harbinger title
but it would make me go insane.
I’d surrender my pretty red breast
and just become a bird that’s plain.
But then who would warn the people
that old man winter is soon to go?
It might be in March or April
before anyone would ever know.
© Copyright 2007 Larry Linville (UN: larrylinville at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved. Larry Linville has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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2 comments:
Pretty picture of a robin---your poem today is a good one---you must have been inspired today.
But why would somebody who's always late, be named Robin? Why not Josey, or somethin'?
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