Late Winter, Detroit

Robins return

before spring

wraps warmth

around the city

the cold core

of abandoned fealty

thaws to mud

softens with songs

schoolchildren play

hoops and holler

in fenced spaces

across the street

from burnt husks

of buildings no longer

meant for living

here we inhale

exhaust and longing

for the strange

orange dusk

the cusp of day

the sleeves

of overwintered

sweaters come

undone at seams

are shed

shells washed

up by the polluted

river where we wade

wet as dawn

and listen

for those songs

the birds bring

with them the thaw

comes slowly

slipping in overslept

visions of vitality

our ears perk up

awakened by trills

and chirps

we change

water into wine

and divine

intervention

leave-taking what

we can no longer

believe of gods

we cleave

to the swell

of robin’s breasts

restless in our waking

pulling back

the pitch black

dead chill

and calling

like baby birds

open-mouthed

hungry for warm-

nested living.

© Ami Mattison

Photo courtesy of Andreas Trepte