Why Poetry?
February 2019
A robin comes to my yard in spring, breast like sun, bead-black eyes, slate-blue wings. He cocks his head, this way and that, listens for breakfast, grubs and insects rustling in fresh soil. No promise in those eyes how long he’ll stay. He may follow other birds, songs from somewhere far away muffled in the gusting wind. He may leave when cold begins to mute the green, or morning frost spreads sparkling icing on the ground. Winter comes, steals my memory of spring. But I return to this poem’s page. The robin never flies away. Sarah Edwards
Photograph by Debra R egula The Art & Soul of Greensboro
February 2019
O.Henry 49