What vast endurance
must these tiny creatures brave-
and nimbleness in flight.
Aerial dancers, swift and light,
of emerald and rubies in their wings-
crucial feathers, dignified
by alloyed gold and steel.
How do these trembling hearts
into wing and bone,
hollow and mercurial?
Enhanced essence of air
streamed from nectar of flowers
the energy expended.
What formulae of geometry and physics
can prove these creatures?
*** Our hummingbirds, that have graced our yard with their presence all spring and summer, are leaving for their winter homes in Central America. I took one feeder down today to wash and store for the arrival of next Aprils guests. The other 2 feeders will stay up for a few more weeks. I always like to leave at least one feeder out- just in case there is a slow poke heading south that needs a rest and a little snack for the trip.
The light has lost its harsh intensity.
Earth’s tilt has nudged the sun
into an angle
and more autumn.
Setting the changing leaves
into a different hue
perfect for the falls rubies
Walking the gravel path
on this last summers evening,
we talk in low voices
so as not to disturb the flowers
and the butterflies, busy
with their own seasons changes.
I am anxious to shed this summer-
its days long
and its light, too intrusive.
Autumn will cool my brow
and give my weary eyes rest
until I can sleep in winters
long dark night.
The heat scours the landscape
and the humidity wraps itself in my hair,
creating damp ringlets against my neck.
The rustle of desiccated leaves,
scratching the dry itch
of the hot southern breeze,
is all that’s left of the garden.
Rooms remain darkened,
against the late afternoon sun,
with only the sound of the ceiling fan
in the drowsy halflight.
The sun is rising farther to the south
inching each day to the true east
to the equinox
the one who knows
his shadow casts the lengthening light across
the figured stylus
away from numbers and chimes
but into nature’s time
Time is not linear
a spiraling cycle of sun and moon
of resurrection and renewal
rising from the withered vine
to abundant grape and glory
only to wither again
Modern time is only a construct of conceit-
man controlling his minutes and hours
each tied to his wrist
or tucked into his vest pocket
to be worshipped
until his final breath
But the old oaks stand
unhurried by the numbers and chimes
moved only by the moon’s tides
and the sun’s chariot travels
from light into light into light