Where were we wandering before

Where were we wandering before,
In the autumn and winter months?
Your wings were then a shield to me
From the realities of March.

No matter if the cold wind blew,
I hadn't but to think of you,
And happiness, my bird of song, I knew.

But Spring has come alas too soon.
While poppies in the meadows bloom,
Inside their eggs the fledglings scratch
And seek their infant bonds to crack.

So young nests will be broken down,
And none should mourn or cry.
Wingspans must be folded out
So babes may learn to fly.