One Ticked-Off Little Robin

A soggy robin glared at me

through kitchen sliding door.

His feathers were white-frosted

by a cold and sodden snow.

No song he sang to show his ire,

as though it was my fault

that he could not bask in the sun

or flit from branch to branch.

He asked me to stop everything

and take care of his needs.

I didn’t know what I should do

to warm him up and cheer him. 

I said my migraines just predict the snow,

I wish that they could stop it.

published in Prolific Pulse