A poem for late autumn.
There — a ruby-throated hummingbird
in the raspberry beebalm, like a word
just now on the tip of your tongue.
The square inch of air it hovers in
is shirred, and when it flies, is bare.
Minutes later a hummingbird moth,
its wings like the froth of tiny waves.
Bird soul in insect body: an asterisk
on the summer garden’s beauty.
*
Now it’s November,
the beebalm and all
its company cut down,
the sky white,
the only iridescence
a blue Mylar balloon
caught in the crown
of the black maple.
A poem for late autumn. There — a ruby-throated hummingbird in the raspberry beebalm, like a word just now on the tip of your tongue. The square inch of air it hovers in is shirred, and when it flies, is bare. Minutes later a hummingbird moth, its wings like the froth of tiny waves. Bird soul in insect body: an asterisk on the summer garden’s beauty. * Now it’s November, the beebalm and all its company cut down, the sky white, the only iridescence a blue Mylar balloon caught in the crown of the black maple.