Robin, as you sing your red breast swells

between the frosty branches in this wintry glow.

You cock your head and listen to the bells

across the fields spread white in sequined snow.

You hope for frozen morsels – mana from my hand

but do not ask. I throw them down: your tune

like melting icicles, the hope in distant lands

we must all keep.  Believe, wipe up our wounds,

like you we must keep singing in the cold,

be bold and hope for miracles, make them happen

as you do when I stretch my hand.