I pour the hot water
into the sugar that waits
inside the mason jar.
Here I am in the kitchen
longing to be
of use in the world.
Outside the window,
the broad tailed hummingbirds
swarm the near-empty feeder.
They will find, I know,
some other sweetness
if I do not make the nectar.
I long to believe
one small act of devotion
might ripple out
and affect the world
as profoundly as an act
of hate, but I do not believe it.
Still, I stir. The contents
of the jar change
from solid to cloudy to clear.
Outside, the blur
of hunger, the whirring
of dark green wings.