The hummingbird She aimed straight for the yellow bottom of the old birdhouse, repaired and refurbished with its patched roof and painted flowers on the sides hanging on the black swirly hook decorating the deck. Pure grace, she was, as she danced with her wings inspecting the sweetness of the little dwelling, with disappointment she flitted off to the pink and red and purple and blue of the ceramic butterflies dangling from another little black hook. And then she turned to me, flustered and fluttering like a question, yearning for the syrupy sweetness of something real, something made by Mother Nature’s hand. Awed by her attention, and how her focus and determination, like a tantrum, spoke to me, I pointed my gaze to the potted geraniums and zinnias – red and pink and orange delights stretching for the sun, just below her frolicking. Message apparently received, she wiggled her way to the tallest of the pink zinnias, and after all that fuss, imagine my disappointment when she zipped off to the south, and my sadness that our communion had not been more.
This poem is part of an online collection I call Little Morsels of Delight.