In my home long ago, my desk looked out on a rambling rose.

Robin comes to leaves that freckle my window
thinking to hide in the red of rosehips
soft tangerine-breasted bird.
Feet wound hard over brown thorns
patch on green-patterned leaves
clear pip of your song
cuts deep through glass.
Impudent flit to my window.
You think to be a small sky-cloud
with wings stretched
you red-tangled shadow of rosehips.