You Sing Your Song
At a wood crafted table
Weathered, grayed
By rain, sun and shade
The silent echoes of trees
From which it was made
A robin red breast near
Its song a knowing wise
For it too sees the tree
In its now present disguise
So still, so quiet, I to be
To keep that robin near
On the lookout by me
Not pained by days past
Not burdened with lessons of history
No fear to soar the sky
No doubt in moment present
Little bird, little bird
You sing your song
And ALL is known.
Rose Marie Raccioppi
Poet Laureate
Orangetown, New York
