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 humming bird is small,
a passing thought
that when the sun goes down I still remember.
Wings blur again in space, a pinwheel caught,
reminding me
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.
It's 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,
or 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
or 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, 
short tubes where bills and tongue inserted
bring reward

 and reap the gift that's proffered,
then flit to another feeder,
there 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.

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

 Or is love best when flight is not so sudden?
Should love need time to ripen,
just as fruit?

 The question is worth asking.
Nonetheless, 
this summer play of birds is surely gift
as much as life itself:

the quick dance on the margin, 
fast of wing, 
improvident, delicious.
Thinking at such times of gifting
is not important.

 5.

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