as I walk in my sister's garden,
away from deadlines and unfinished stories.
It hovers, directly in my face,
blocking my path,
and darts to rest,
so still for a moment,
its throat purple with unsung song,
that I remember with certainty
each day is numbered,
a mystery, unknown, a gift
like this hummingbird
making its uncounted rounds
from bloom to bloom,
pollen on its little, hairy legs,
perhaps sentience in its beady, little eyes,
as it stops to stare,
not seeing me at all.
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| Costa's Hummingbird (Wikipedia) |
Loved this. It's synchronicity, too... I was working on this one story for months and months, and just couldn't get it to jell. And then on Sunday, this last Sunday, I spotted a hummingbird in a red bougainvillea bush. BAM. I stayed up all night hammering at the keyboard, sent the story to the publisher at 5 am. All because of a hummingbird :)
ReplyDeleteGuilie @ Quiet Laughter
Thank you, Guilie. Later today, my quilting group talked of when the hummingbirds would return and if it were too early to put the feeders out. I didn't say a word but thought of your comment and synchronicity.
DeleteWhat a lovely poem and a gorgeous little bird! I wonder too, if there is sentience in behind ANY (supposedly) lower forms of life and imagine there must be at some level. Elephants grieve the loss of a family member. A mother cat misses her lost baby, and the same cat takes pleasure in the sound of her human's voice, so I choose to believe that yes, at some level, they are aware of themselves of their surroundings. Maybe not always of US, but they grace us with their presence when they choose to do so. Just lovely, Beth!
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