I’ll call her Robin

Poems and Things

Well my art’s come to a standstill.

And yet, 

Her wobbly limbs keep moving. 

My portfolio hasn’t expanded.

And yet,

She won’t stop growing.

Occupied, my right hand holds her nursing.

And yet,

She’ll grow up far too soon. 

My empty hands will soon reach for her as she flies away from me. 

And so, 

She’s grown dearer to me than art.

Perhaps I’ve achieved my masterpiece.

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