My father died happily in March.
And two weeks later in one of my
grieving times I looked out
back and the yard was
adorned with so many fat-chested robins it looked
preposterous.
This never before happened;
their saffron bellies
bare in their uniformed
rhythm of snapping up some precise delicacy
in the stubble.
They were him, decidedly
intent on nourishment;
one in an uncommon
formation of dozens suppering in silence.
Remembering the egg my mother.
Keep the faith, my Internet friend, You are a first-class writer and deserve to be heard.