The hummingbird

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.

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