The Robin

The snow swirls in hefty gusts,  

a cold bully in the middle of April.  

The old house rattles with the force of it.

Sharp, icy flakes tap out a taunting rhythm.

The robin sits huddled in the tree,

wishing - endlessly hoping - for spring.

I watch her tuck her head beneath her wing

and I wrap my arms tighter across my middle.

My wishes - my own hopes - echoing hers.