Mr. Robin Red Breast

It was Autumn when she was last here,
we're stared down upon her,
my family and I.
We even sang her melody
as she seemed sad but she stared peculiarly at the roses.
While the wild leaves blew around her, constant petals were
in her sights. It seemed strange to us, my Wife and I
that she would come such a long way from home
to stare at a bunch of roses.

When she returned in the Winter
my wife suggested it might be lost love,
I wasn't entirely sure,
you know how terribly emotional women are.
Each time with these roses,
the same colour as my breast.
She was thinner.

It was Easter next we saw her,
my Son called out at the edges of our weaving,
he liked looking out, never dared freedom though.
She was there again, the same twelve roses in her hand,
they seemed to never die.
Such defensive, resilient flowers to be attached to such sorrow.

I agreed with my Wife,
as time went on.
She was a wise female,
though I never told her so.
My wife died, a few months ago now,
something to do with her ticker.
I am still comforted by the lady
and her twelve roses.
She's reliable, I'll give her that -
at least one day
every season,
any weather.