When Hummingbirds Fly Again

I like the poem I posted earlier today, a poem about a hummingbird. Yet, for most of the day, something about the poem didn’t feel right to me. Somehow, it was off. Posted below is a revision. It seems to mingle with me a bit more smoothly than my last effort. What say you?


“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods.
They kill us for their sport.”
― William Shakespeare, King Lear

It offers me a moment:
a spark of color, ruby green,
a thunderous flutter-hum.

Peacefully frantic, it bounces
against the air, directing, redirecting
flight between brilliant wells of sugar:

honeysuckle, trumpetbush, and sage.
Then, in an instant, it hovers before me,
considers my repose beneath the sun;

finding no sustenance, it darts away
through the black air stitched between
the boughs of a dark pine.


14 thoughts on “When Hummingbirds Fly Again

      1. May I make a suggestion? I love your background, but the white square around the pen is harsh. You might want to consider converting removing the white and converting to a .png. I can help if you need it.


  1. Hm… Yes, I like this better than your first attempt. It makes it easier to understand. But why, exactly, are you mourning? Is it because the bird has deemed you useless in its existence? What does that make you feel? Just digging a little.


  2. I like that one, too. It seems right from the bird’s pov. But the other way I found intriguing as well because I wondered why the fancy that the bird found you of no use would make you feel bad. But perhaps THAT’S not something that was really there to begin with? Just for poetic use? Sorry. Don’t mean to drag you into a discourse on your poem! o_O


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