Hummingbird Lessons

Knees in the dirt,
I make room
for one more harvest,
as the little bird
dances in the grass,
sings to a cloud,
holds court
with worms and toads.
He passes through,
pausing here and there,
zinnias and Russian sage
cosmos, dill and bachelor buttons —
blurred wings,
a flash of green.
Now here in the garden,
now out in the old orchard,
now in the woody edge by the marsh —
always drinking deep
and moving on.

And though every flower
must fade and pass
into the long dark
of winter,
every season’s fruit
wax heavy
then fall,
and every joy
spend itself —
in his fleeting
but deep tastes,
he never takes
all at once.
And in this way,
he might make
this honey-sweet summerwine
just a bit more lasting.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

2 responses to “Hummingbird Lessons”

  1. Lindy Lee says :

    Better take this one on the road, “Honey-sweet summerwine”

  2. Lindy Lee says :

    …because it wells up most pleasant, happy thoughts…

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