She says her mother comes as a redbird
and visits our yard, mostly in spring,
not wishing to conjure a vestige of death.
She was young for the sickness, the hospital, her death.
She leaned on the window and wept to a redbird,
of torment and sorrow, dying in spring.
Chill winds have blown, now yielding to spring.
Songs from green branches disavow death.
And a daughter confides in whispers to a redbird.
Redbird sits on the window in spring chirping a rebuttal to death.