whir of the first hummingbird—
it’s come so far
for sweetness
Posts Tagged ‘hummingbird’
One Hunger
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hummingbird, hunger, sweetness on April 27, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Symbiosis
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, hummingbird, reader on March 31, 2021| 2 Comments »
These poems
are only words
nesting on a page,
but when you read them
they become
hummingbirds—
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
fluttering
hearts?
Extrapolation
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hummingbird, patience, waiting on April 24, 2020| 2 Comments »
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.
First Night in Mexico
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged frienship, hummingbird, love, positivity, thoughts on February 18, 2020| Leave a Comment »
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.
In the Hummingbird Nest Outside My Window
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bird, hope, hummingbird, nature, nest, poem, poetry on July 6, 2019| Leave a Comment »
From eggs
the size
of small
jelly beans
come these
two beaks
that peak
beyond the
edge—today
they save
me, these
two tiny
wingless things.
Even this
bruised heart
remembers how
to marvel.
April 23
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bird, hummingbird, love, poem, poetry, trust on April 23, 2018| 2 Comments »
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.
While Making Food for the Hummingbirds, I Consider
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hummingbird, love, poem, poetry, sugar on August 11, 2017| 2 Comments »
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.
Example
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged faith, hummingbird, journey, poem, poetry on July 4, 2016| 4 Comments »
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.
Midsummer
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, hummingbird, poem, poetry on June 25, 2016| 3 Comments »
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.
Tipping Point
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, elephant, fitting in, hummingbird, poem, poetry on August 13, 2015| 2 Comments »
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.