Hummingbird

1.

The hummingbird alone among the flowers
has wings to fly
and on this stem is hung:
a meteor that intersects the hours,
a blossom
incandescent in the sun.

The hummingbird is small,
a passing thought
that when the sun goes down I will remember:
remembering
one of childhood's simple pleasures.

Or hummingbird's a mirror, a glass held up
to testify that fire still remains.
For this, I hang a feeder red with drink
outside the kitchen window
above my sink.

2.

Love hangs, its wings transparent.
simply there.
No hand or string appears.
Love chooses where.

A cup of moss at most becomes a nest
and there the tiny eggs
from eyes are hid
until the day they fly and love is bid
by every kind of sweets
to tongue applied.

I too have tasted sugar, hung on wings
as if I were transported,
so it seemed,
at speed of light: a hummer come in spring
to stay as long as summer,
then depart.
Not all the cane in Cuba could make my heart
so light again, it hovers,
so quick, it darts.

3.

Each day I count the birds, put feeders out,
contraptions made of plastic.
Lucky trout
get greater choice in fare.

Love doesn't care.
Its focus is on nectar,
the short tubes where the bill and tongue inserted
bring rewards
and reap the gift that's proffered;

hurries toward
the next bright bloom or feeder,
not to brood,
but sip in search of sweets.

Perhaps the blood
because it flows is fickle, can't hang long;
nor does the emerald hunter,
bird we love
because it gives quick pleasure
and moves on.

4.

The hummer's song's a rattle.
It’s said that death
sounds something like, but louder.

Death comes to rest
wherever it's a guest at night
or morning.

The summer may be best
when light is long
and night is short and quick,

when sun is strong
and climbs the sky at morning,
scouts the west

where hummers, great in number,
sport such vests
as circus women wear.

5.

For me, it's clear
the better part of love is love's request:
breasts full and vests unbuttoned.

Love is best
when flight is not so sudden.
Flight is good, but love needs time to ripen,
just as fruit.

It was a gift, this summer play of birds
like life itself,
a quick dance on the margin,
fast of wing,
improvident, delicious.

What we think
is more important now.

6.

Once we were sought
like hummingbirds and gold
when we were young.

We still remember fire,
hands so hot
and red lips so demanding
we would faint
should we encounter now.

We're not ashamed of bodies we've become.
It's harvest time.
But still we have our pride
and stand in line
if only to complain.

We're what remains:
the rind of withered fruit
that once was hung
with penises and promise
and would come
with lunges and with neighs.

Yes, once were young.