The robin dips on morning breeze,

A flash of crimson through the trees.

It sings its ancient, simple tune,

Beneath the pale and rising moon.

But in the beat of fragile breast,

A different cadence finds its rest.

A phantom ache for solid ground,

A world where other senses crowned.

Even now, it remembers what it was like

To have hands, to touch, to hold, and to feel.

The brush of silk, the weight of gold,

A lover's promise, brave and bold.

The warmth of skin, the sculptor's clay,

The grip that held the world at bay.

Now wings beat where arms once moved,

A soaring grace, profoundly proved.

Through sapphire skies, it carves its way,

But through the silent, feathered day,

The memories never fade.

Each updraft lifts a human thought,

Of battles won, and lessons taught,

Of silent tears, and laughter’s chime,

Held captive in the flow of time.

It perches high, a lonely king,

And wonders at the songs it sings.

Are they its own, or echoes deep,

Of promises the humans keep?

A bird in form, with spirit bound,

To touch that’s lost, and sight profound.