Unwelcome Chorus

The sky outside, a bruised, grey smear,

not yet ready for the sun's hard eye.

And then the robin, sharp, so near,

a sudden, piercing, joyful cry.

It feels like insult, that bright sound,

when my own thoughts are thick with dust.

Another day, unfairly found,

another morning, which I must

now face. The window frame turns clear,

the edges of the world grow keen.

Each chirp, a tiny, cutting spear,

against the quiet I had been

holding onto, the dark, soft hush.

My eyelids gritty, heavy, slow.

They sing as if they have to rush

to greet a world I don't yet know.