The Hummingbird and I

If all ends, the oceans will fold us
into their muddy rug, turning
our lovely and ugly selves alike
into food for such fish as are alive.

Till then, I thank the woman of the waters
who takes each night's moon to term,
who wafts it through the star-stained sky,
to silver all that breathes and doesn't.

Grateful for the kindness of creation,
untainted with melancholy,
unmixed with self-destructiveness,
gently as a knot unravelling,

I unclench. The lockjaw
that shackled my breath slackens,
and I'm able to part my lips,
so the hummingbird hovering near my face,

in search of a portal,
can lay its eggs
on the tree of my ribs,
and bring its fledglings

a mouthful of love, soft and succulent.

New Seed

Wringing wet memories
dry, I amassed enough
tears to fill a pail,
and can sail now
the finest brush

on a vast canvas
to overlay one invisible
coat on another
and term
the desolation a painting.

What price such indulgences?
At my doorstep,
the poisoned world
begs wordlessly for help.
I must pull myself

together, and reach out to it.
My wounds must flow as glue
to fasten beginnings to middles,
and middles to endings again,
to pull the seasons to change,

to tumble day into night,
to birth, grow, shrivel, and conclude,
to aid the turning
of dead root into mulch
that feeds new seed.