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1 Comment | May 14, 2015


The tiniest of aviators,BroadbilledHummingbird

scarcely more than a bumblebee,

darts fast now and frantic

between the beams and oil cans,

the stacks of boxes, racks of tools.


The double garage door gapes open

against the day,

the sun and sky and trees

beckon, there in plain view.


Yet the tiny creature lights

on an overhead beam

above my head.

Stares down


tiny iridescent chest

rises and falls

with the exhaustion of fear.


Only then, as I draw a ladder

up underneath,

there shines acceptance

in those pin prick eyes,

and understanding.


I raise a gentle hand

and he,

tiny and defenseless,

taught by nature

to fear everything,

lights in my palm,

his body no bigger than my thumb,

heart beating like a blur

against my skin.


I feel his warmth,

lift him down, step outside,

thrust my hand skyward

into the day,

his joyous ascent

my offering,

his spinning cavort

a new beginning.


1 Comment

Lori 9:58 pm - 14th May:

Love this poem.

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