An oversized pin cushion riddled with needles
he appears in the field on the ninth of March.
Looking no worse for the wear of winter
he inches along, waddling, stopping
sniffing the first green shoots of clover
pushing up. A spiny miracle raised up
himself, he points his snout
through Lent to Easter and eats.
When a big lethargic winter fly
crawled out from under the edge of a book
I felt disgust at the sight and thought of its
death by fire or ice. Is one more merciful
than the other? I felt no mercy in my decision
to throw it out the door into the snow.
The quicker death by fire seemed too final––
a step I wasn’t ready to take.
After a moment of conscience
I opened the door and saw where it lay
unmoving. I picked it up in a napkin shroud
and laid it by the woodstove, where its legs twitched,
it righted itself, and walked around the I.C.U.
under the stove. Would it find and eat
the smaller fly walking the window pane?
Something beautiful from the woods
into the field at dusk
stepping lightly in the snow
until she startles and lopes
away from an open moment
to protective cover, hidden
but not before having been seen;
and having been seen, having
been known in the seeing.
Judith Robbins’ latest collection of poems, To Bury or Burn, sweeps
across the spectrum of life, leaving in its wake moments of joy and
grief, childhood and motherhood, poets and their poems, and the
company and loss of cats, all of it against the backdrop of the
The book is available from Amazon
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The first flakes of November snow
are singular: one––two … one––one.
They come gently down from clouds,
white clouds hurrying over to keep
an appointment with approaching winter.
Suddenly thickly they hit the ground
a cold body of weather fully formed.
For four minutes, five minutes, what
was flurry becomes a full-blown squall
drawing me out of protective quarters
to see if I’ve misunderstood what it portends.
Humbled by a spider whose web
I compromised, I apologize to this mite
a thirty-second of an inch in size.
Having noticed its perfectly formed web
with the spinner at center, resting up
for the lesson it was about to teach me
the possessor of greater size but lesser
sense compared with this fellow creature.
An exploratory poke undid perfection.
Repentance is hollow, as I know it’s too
late to undo the damage I’ve done.
But not too late to learn this lesson
and to leave untouched the rest of the web
whose author is once again resting––alive––
I hope––to possibly spin again.
Just in time for a summer wedding
the white hydrangea bloomed.
Both guest and greeter beside the mailbox
it grew from the gravel of decades of winters
plowed to the side of the road. Each white
puff a bridal bouquet, doubled in number
of blossoms this year at the time of the first
anniversary, with an added blossom
of the couple’s own: a baby girl, born.