What’s the Phoebe doing here
In coldest cold
And barest bones of year
A sentinel on skeleton of
Boughs that crack the brittle air
And where’s his little mate
He calls for so beseechingly
Has he remained to look for her
Phoe-be
The depth of winter swallowing his plea
Phoe-be
Phoe-be
His two note song deep frozen there
Wrapped in winter’s will
No other music to be heard
But one lone bird
We wait together
He and I
Though all in vain
No answer comes
No sweet reply
No love to keep him warm
And Spring too far away




Sara Mathews     January 2017