She never felt the wind
through her feathers
as she flew.
She never tasted raindrops
or the morning’s sweetest dew.

She never had to hunt for
worms or scratch for bugs to eat.
She never felt a
tree’s rough bark beneath
her tiny feet.

Instead she sang her robin song
from her windowsill at dawn
And watched the other birds
at play in the middle
of our lawn.

She would perch
upon our shoulders and
observe us as we ate.
And anything she wanted
she just took it from
our plates.

For fourteen years we shared
her life and the joy
she brought to us
And when she died her spirit
left without a cry or fuss.

A simple little robin –
nothing special or unique
Except that she remains
with us a spirit…….
so to speak.

For I still hear her song
from wild birds upon the wing
And I know another little robin
will hatch out this coming Spring.