Robin

for Emily Dickinson

Robin and wren and oriole and finch,
Handholds of life and brimmed to the inch,
But hard to touch and quick to part.
Birds don't stay. Like the heart,

They flit, and in a year migrate
Elsewhere, allowed a perch orate
Their seasoned definitions to anyone
Like me, converted. But their fun?

To be bright inquisitorial machines
Displayed amid the near-tamed demesnes
Of myth, like garden, meadow, orchard?
"Soul, now will you tell? Or tortured

Be to song by our soft feathers,
By our tunes and flights? Or by the fetters
Of our sharp encircling claws, our avid beaks?"

Breathe deep. It's only you they seek.