Sitting in front of the fire this morning, having a cup of tea and reading Neruda's Winter Garden I heard a bit of a commotion at the window.  A robin! Red-breasted and wonderful as they always are on the first sighting.  There were about ten walking the meadow, plucking worms, gathering seeds.

This winter has been an odd one weather-wise with wildly variable temps and too early bloomings but these robins seem to be right on time.  I was reassured by their fine fat selves and will be listening closely for their exquisite song.  Playing on WRBN, no contribution necessary.

Pablo Neruda.  His poems include.  Me, you.  The ones in our world who suffer this morning and the ones who have the luxury of watching a bird closely and carefully.  They include our great mysteries:  death, god, love while never leaving out the humble objects that make up our day: artichokes, tomatoes, salt, the dictionary.

This last stanza from Winter Garden.....

"Now the earth lives
numbing its oldest questions,
the skin of its silence stretched out.
Once more I am the silent one
who came out of the distance
wrapped in cold rain and bells:
I owe to earth's pure death
the will to sprout. "

...puts me in the planet's great circle that rises above the confusions and disappointments of human life.  And takes me with it.