Waiting For Your Sign
The feeder sits untouched—
seeds dry beneath the wind,
no flash of red, no soft refrain
of song that once would send
my heart alight with knowing.
Each morning I still look—
past branches, past the glass,
hoping for that scarlet spark
to break the quiet mass
of time that feels unending.
For weeks, the air’s been still—
as if love’s messengers withdrew,
remembering the ache that filled
this season we once knew,
when pain had shadowed beauty.
Yet I believe they’ll come again,
when sorrow finds its rest.
A cardinal’s call will pierce the hush,
a whispered sign, a soft caress—
my love’s voice: “I’m still here with you.”
Notes from Chris
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