Sometimes the Birds
At our friends’ country house for a night,
we played cards and talked about next year’s
Christmas party as though the port in your chest
wasn’t there, as though your future was as certain
as ours. I woke early the next morning,
sat on their wrap-around porch, head bent
to my pen and paper, the distant hum
of an early mower or maybe a farmer
plowing his field in the background.
The song was warm and summer, and my eye caught
a quick flash dance around the hanging pots
of Fuschia, their shocking pink and ecstatic purple,
and there they were, the liquid green
hummingbirds, not the mowers or the farmers,
but these little bits of whirring joy that drink from flowers.