What tipped the scale and made branches whip my neck?
The Farmers Almanac clearly states, this is
not the time of squalls. Them ones that blow in quick
from the West. Carrying wooden baskets stuffed
with tears – and scattering them from tattered hands
against my neck and ears.
A robin holds court on her wind-torn throne.
She’s not knowing the scent of yesterdays aftershave;
nor Merry Melodies of the seventh morn. She simply
strains her breast; flexes her rust-stained throat;
scraping and stabbing at a lead-grey sky…
in absence to your voice.
Note: “Even after 4 decades, the orphan still grieves for the sound of her father’s voice.”