My mind was cluttered
with catastrophe.
Churning and turning,
Composing and decomposing.
Phrases, paragraphs, essays,
Dissertations.
Words, words, words.
Then suddenly,
A robin sang her way into
The cerebral clamor.
Our eyes met.
The chatter stopped.
She balanced on a spruce bud,
Sky all around her
Shouting its blueness.
Sun on her red breast?
But wait.
All those poets and ornithologists
Naming her a red-breasted robin
Were wrong.
The feathers are clearly
Burnt umber, even orange,
But certainly not red.
Before more words could
Consume me,
She sang be back
Once more.