Posts Tagged ‘hummingbird’

One Hunger

whir of the first hummingbird—
it’s come so far
for sweetness

Read Full Post »


These poems
are only words
nesting on a page,
but when you read them
they become
can you feel
how they are drawn
to the red flower of you,
how it is you
who gives them
the nectar they need,
how it is
what is inside you
that supports
their tiny

Read Full Post »





Today it’s the hummingbirds that save me.

Not because I see one. Because I don’t.

Every year, the broad-tailed hummingbirds

arrive at our feeders the third week of April.

This year, they’ve yet to arrive.

How many other joys have I been awaiting

that are yet to materialize?

It is hard to spend a life waiting, and yet

this one impatience I meet with trust.

Every year, there are hummingbirds.

They return. And when they come,

we’ll feed them. We’ll admire their furious

wings. We’ll forget they were late.

We’ll delight in their curious hum.


Read Full Post »


for Colette



Beside my bed, she left

a beautiful beaded hummingbird

and a story about how the Mayans

believe that these birds will transport

all of our good wishes and desires

to another. Tonight, there is no one

I wouldn’t send this bird to—

not just to my loved ones,

but to my unloved ones, the ones

I would rather forget, the ones

I would rather ignore. Oh little bird,

with your bright body and shining wings,

let’s get to work. Let’s send out

extraordinary beauty tonight,

extraordinary love.

Read Full Post »




From eggs

the size

of small

jelly beans

come these

two beaks

that peak

beyond the


they save

me, these

two tiny

wingless things.

Even this

bruised heart

remembers how

to marvel.

Read Full Post »

April 23



How do they do it,

the broad-tailed hummingbirds,

arriving at my window

the same day every year,

welcome as spring,

reliable as moon.


And what part of me

thrills in their predictability?

And what part says,

a tad too triumphantly,

See, here’s proof,

things come back.


I hear the small birds

before I see them,

their wingtips trilling,

I’ve read how the feathers

that make the sound wear down

from use. By midwinter,


you can barely hear

their bright hum at all until,

preparing to breed,

they grow new feathers again.

How do they do it,

grow feathers at just the right time?


I want to linger in the small

miracle of it, these ears still learning

how to hear and this heart still

astonished at the timing

of the world, how life just knows

when to return, when to grow.

Read Full Post »




It’s invisible then, the sugar,

after it’s stirred in the jar.

No one would know it is there—

it looks to be only water.


But sweet it is, nonetheless,

a secret, a transparent rhyme,

a hidden pleasantness,

a shrine to the unseen.


You are my sugar,

the fuel that no one sees,

but I know, as the water knows,

what a gift it is to receive.












Read Full Post »





Above my window

two tiny hummingbird beaks

hover just beyond the edge of a nest

which is smaller than my hand—

this, I think, is what it looks like,

the start of a long, long journey.

By fall, they will be in Mexico.

They don’t even know yet

they can fly.

Read Full Post »





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.



Read Full Post »

I wanted to be more like you,

I did. I wanted to fit in

your hummingbird world

with its hummingbird nests

and its delicate wings and

its predisposition toward

delicate things, such as

tea cups and flowers

and gossamer strings.

So I painted my body

with delicate swirls

and colorful, whimsical

intricate whorls, and I tried

to fit my whole self inside

your dainty settings,

I tried, I tried to be more

like you, but there is no hiding

these giant gray legs and

this massive gray trunk

and these floppy gray ears.

It’s obvious. I am an elephant,

dear, and I just can’t squeeze into

this fragile world.

I belong home

in the elephant herd.

And I’m sorry I broke your fine

china cups. It’s so evident now

I can’t fit in them, but …

well, sometimes we need

to fail to learn. We need to digress

before we return.

I still think you’re lovely,

though slightly absurd,

oh beautiful, delicate,

bright hummingbirds.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: