Dead, winter-ravished Earth
Begins to thaw at last.
Sun's life-giving lips
Brush her icy cheek,
Bring her forth from the grave.
Twelve cheery robins
Congregate, famished,
In my barren front yard.
They peck at the promise
Of life within dead grass.
A distant crow croaks
His harsh message
From the western hills:
"Repent! For the Kingdom
Of Heaven is at hand."
Noises From the Machine
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