I was young,
8 years old sitting in my house
watching the rain roll down the window.
I remember the distorted image of the driveway,
old car rolling down it,
and little did I know that tomorrow,
the cold rain would become tears,
the window -- my cheek,
the driveway -- my memories.
It was the last time I would see him.

What I wish I saw
on that spring morning
was the bird -- not the car
on the pavement
but the good, the bird.
Through the rain it sung,
speaking to me.
Telling the joy and telling the happiness
through ears to heart.
When the sun rose
the robin sung,
again.