THE robin is the one
That interrupts the morn
With hurried, few, express reports
When March is scarcely on.

The robin is the one
That overflows the noon
With her cherubic quantity,
As April but begun.

The robin is the one
That speechless from her nest
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best.

Emily Dickinson

Ah, the poem where I am a bird.

How much have I been waiting and hoping for February, and its cold, dreary, infinitely rainy days, to end? How much hope have I placed in March for warmer and dryer and sunnier days?

My entire Saturday was consumed with a conference for English professors. I told my son on Friday night that I’d have to leave early, and I probably wouldn’t see him before my ride came to pick me up (too early). But he did wake up in time, and came downstairs to say bye. And then he started crying.

“I never get to see you,” he said. “You’re not supposed to have to go to work on Saturday.”

The last two Saturdays I’ve had work commitments, it’s true. And I’ve had other late evenings, too. And this absolutely broke my heart. I hugged him, and promised him that I’d play Mariokart with him when I got back. I’m going to keep that promise.