To a Robin in June

by Arielle Walters

The night draws near. You linger on the crest
of weathered branch to watch the sunset float
beyond the hill. And by her summons pressed,
you fold your wing to seek an antidote
for pecking ills, an antiphon of rest.
At heart it lies—a repertoire by rote
that links with dusk to leave the world caressed
in calm. Transfixed, you pluck the crimson note.
And Nature leans on sweet a lap as this—
the dame of lullabies, queen of compline kiss.


Arielle pens poems, plies harp strings, and pampers African violets.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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