Hummingbird sits in the julibrissin outside the kitchen window and watches me prepare my morning coffee. Among other things, the process involves a boiling kettle and crystallized nectar. Perhaps he imagines I become part hummingbird in a split heartbeat. My lips hovering, ever so carefully, over the bittersweet steam, I sip judiciously.
I suspect the creatures know they'll consume me, eventually, inhabit my flesh and bones, when my limbs still and my chest falls to rise no more. In the meantime, though, they seem satisfied with the seeds I pour each morning, the nuts tendered in the palm of my hand, the regular splashes of water in various dishes, placed here and there, in their garden.
Even the perch and shelter this cottage provides, when Nature turns her back on us, is meant for them, they think, I am sure. Time, being what it is, pauses and takes a deep breath amid this abundance. To rush would be to miss the point: They do inhabit my flesh, burrow deep in my bones, sip at my salty marrow. Already they perch in my peaceful heart, drowse in the warmth of my love, bring their young to partake in this blessed circle of dappled shade and stippled sun.
YOU ARE READING
Out of this Earth
PoetryMusings on the luminous sometimes whimsical world of human love: Bring your heart to the Garden for a feast of Earthly delights but come prepared for unexpected twists and dark turns along the way.
