Every wild thing understands,
As winter starts to sicken:
Black willows raise expressive hands
And gesture horror-stricken.
The wind heeds some deep grief-born urge,
His banshee forces massing,
And renders one last tuneless dirge
For tyrant winter’s passing.
But the robin’s looking down his nose
Is not from this disaster.
I think he hopes the winter goes,
If anything, much faster!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, February 10, 1954
