M. Braendeholm

was a winter’s song,
a white-faced bracing melody,
and I heard a robin’s rag
and all that jazz,
singing half note suburban charms.
And as the wind bit stiff and grey,
I saw snowdrops
clumped below, deep-rooted, cold
and sable bare,
a resounding challenge
for a bird. So flit little robin,
perched upright, tiny brightest speck.
You are hope despite
these snowy days. Spring´s rhythms
cost nothing but an unusual tune.