It’s the robin’s trill
that most often
calls him to mind
deep from the arbor
of spring azalea
and its cotton candy
blooms,
the privet hedge
shoulder high
then two stories up
in an instant of memory,
a wooden screen door slam
bees and clover
and Pappy
lifting me to the sky
whiskey on a breeze,
the rough chafe
of whiskers,
“chirp chirp”
he says as a kiss
against my cheek
then sets me on the ground
to tangle in the blossoms
one more time
before we leave
for home.
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. Photo of poet, age 4, with her grandfather. NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
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