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,
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.