Poem: "The Birds Know Something We Do Not"

I've said previously I'm not a poet, and I don't write much poetry at all. The only poems I have posted here are dark ones about death and the bubonic plague, which is consistent with my overall writing. However, occasionally something will reach my otherwise morbid mind and allow in a bright ray of sunshine, so now I present you with a true rarity: a poem about late winter bird song. Enjoy!

The Birds Know Something We Do Not

 

The birds know something we do not,

With their winter-wreathed sung symphony.

The birds know something we forgot:

Winter’s aged now to its morbid maturity.

 

Though frosty still the morns may be,

The birds sing as like a spring day bright,

Weaving songs of warm weather harmony,

Though frigid still will be the night.

 

From where this wisdom comes I do not know,

Yet heartened by their songs my spirits are.

Their spring songs say even in a driving snow:

“Winter’s warming death be not now afar.”