by Paul C. Binotto
While new-seed still sleeps within its sack,
And the tools on racks, still burnish rusty stain,
the blossoms and the birds have just come back
to roost upon tree limbs, again.
Proud Robins display, from out unbuttoned coats, their rosy vests.
Loud and busy, they are about the knitting of new nests.
They brag and wag their heads in song of winter places spent,
on warmed sandy-beds, sun caressed, beneath a feather tent.
Now awake, blossoms shake their heads at their noisy, busy guests.
And, think, “How strange, Robins never seem to take a moment’s rest.
Don’t they know, sun basking makes the better scents?
And, the fruit to come from quiet slumber makes one most content?”