Another Poem (It came to me and Prose didn't): Request

Robin in the black walnut, turning beak to wet feathers,
you who know nor care about deaths of evil men
who were also grandfathers and fathers, who were glad
for things--

An hour in morning, steam rising from tea,
even a bird in a tree, shining with rain.
Men who kill, when they choose death, do they also conclude
tiny joys, goodness flashing like the sudden spread of robin's
wing? Or do they sometimes catch movement, wonder at the grace
of a beautiful thing?

And robin, who cares for nor knows my heart,
this thing I hold like a curled shell in my hands,
following tunnels, pearling and shining as it mazes
to shaded, dark places--

Robin, in your graced
birdness, your preoccupation with turned, furrowed soil
and nests spun from plastic scraps and cast off threads,
you who love the rain, know how to open wings
who have never known falling--

teach me, bird, how to step into this suspended
sadness, how to stand in this late spring rain
in a morning of green you never doubted,
even on the coldest January night, would come again.