Wingbeat

The hummingbird's wingbeat shimmers
as does his breast
of stunning incarnadine feathers.
He hangs in air,
his trust, his heart's confession,
is that within his reach
all's going right;
then like obsession,
darts off in arrow fashion to some red bloom,
a reflection at which he sips,
then primly sits
a twig
to rest and groom.

In summer's hottest season when all is flair,
so hot, it seems,
the air itself stops to stare,
a hummer hangs in air,
there simply floats
a jewel to be admired at summer's throat.
His pride is him himself to all displayed.
His is his own mirage, but step away
and the mirage has faded,
shot right off
so fast eye cannot track,
even memory gone.
The admirer is left there standing.

What has he seen?
Unstable gleam that flashed
and spun away;
perhaps reflection,
a bit of something beautiful.
A touch of mind? A hope?
A wish? A vision?
A sharp decline
to slide down to yourself
from some strange high
to which there was no witness.
Perhaps a joke
by someone with a mirror.

But such a loss!
A fragment chipped from joy
that had no place
in this grim day-to-day,
so blew away
to other realms
where princes dwell in blooms
and young girls fly
on feathered backs of swallows
to be wed;
where there will be no sorrow
and no death: a promised land
he was given a passing glimpse of.

Yes, that is it!
What was seen had the kind of magic
fairytales invest
in both the reading and the hearing,
just now was seen
a gift, no hesitation,
intent unsaid,
no knowledge by whom it was sent,
but a lovely vision
to be treasured down deep,
there received
in the manner in which it was given:
straight to the heart.