When the robin sings

I love Sunday mornings.

There's something about padding downstairs

in bare feet

and listening to the quiet.

The quiet of people still dreaming

their dreams of the night.

The  small sounds of the kettle boiling.

The coffee percolater making the little hmmph hmmph

noise that I love.

Last week was really difficult.

Sometimes I wonder if I should write

here of the practical things of life,

and I always decide no.

That was not what I started writing for.

Now at my kitchen table I look out across a winter white world.

There's a tiny robin sitting on a tree  in the snow.

I think back to the week that has gone.

Hurt. Tears. Loss.

Snap out of it,

I say to myself.

Remember the beatuy of the February stars.

Dream that this week will wrap itself around me

like pale pink orchids.

Remember your topaz eyes

and all I saw there

in that first

look

of

love