The Robin

There is a Robin that lives at the end of my garden,
The first time I spotted her, she perched upon handlebars,
Stood still and staring back at me,
A Robin, red chest forward, and facing our world.

The second time on the water feature's spout,
She, still stood, twigs and moss within her mouth,
And as I sat assessing my life's trials and worth,
The Robin prepared to build a home with her beak.

The third, I, cradling a morning mug of brew in hand,
Pondering stood and wondering why I worked,
She, the Robin was there yet again,
a sign of and in life from the natural hand.

And I have to think of the Robin and the life she leads,
Without the question of motivation or deed,
Devoid of agenda, no machinations, conceit,
The beauty in that simple survivalist creed.

So now I sit in the garden, assembling words,
And yearn to share this rare moment, serene,
And sip my coffee awash with human brood,
looking out for the Robin, garden companion, friend.