Little robins cock their heads when I pass and stop. “Hello.” I move. They dart. The forest birds know not to trust.
This is poem 96 in the lead up to the total of 104. The project is to write two poems a week across 52 weeks (i.e. a year). I reasoned, if I wrote that many poems, some might not be so good, some might be ok and a few might be really interesting. Please look back among the poems I have posted over the last ten months to get an idea of how this theory has panned out.
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Preview the books Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys and Shining in Brightness.