by Georgia Wingfield-Hayes

The world was made
to love
and be loved in.

The song thrush
exquisite,
calls in
the first light of day.

I lay in bed
of feathers
warmed against the cool
morning air.

Enchantment all around
a robin
now joins
this chorused dawn.

To think
I’d learned
to dread
the day.

A sense now,
a silver thread
from childhood
recalled
of wonder,
curiosity,
excitement,

I am here!
To sing
my song back
into this world.