Each time I pass the window
I glance at the hummingbird feeder
the red disc like a Martian spacecraft
hovering, suspended from an anchor.
The chill today imparts understanding.
Soon, she’ll wing south to tropical locales
while I’ll wash the feeder with vinegar, water,
prepare for winter storage, gray days, long nights,
winds howling fierce while snow trembles,
breath rising like fog, hugging arms for warmth.
So very long to April with January and February’s cold
administered, large doses, not quelling memories of warmth
and yellow flowers like the sun, face spilling into silken petals,
fragrance rising like a Puccini aria, embracing, but
not yet. Fly safe little bird, celestial ruby throat,
until next spring, when your repast will be waiting.
end 9/15/2016 (2)