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When I was eight
March 11, 2015
A robin made her nest in the wreath on our front door.
The mailman discovered the smooth speckled shells,
bending his bad back over sideways to peer at them.
Tender in a way I hadn’t expected.
Two weeks later the babies appeared overnight,
nut-brown and sticky and loud
Still shaking off pieces of shell and stars.
Forbidden from disturbing the quiet satisfaction of the mother,
I laid on the other side of the door
My ear pressed to the cool wood
Feeling the thump and murmur of new life.
© Olivia D., Sharon, MA
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