A poem for late autumn.

There — a ruby-throated hummingbird

in the raspberry beebalm, like a word

just now on the tip of your tongue.

The square inch of air it hovers in

is shirred, and when it flies, is bare.

Minutes later a hummingbird moth,

its wings like the froth of tiny waves.

Bird soul in insect body: an asterisk

on the summer garden’s beauty.


Now it’s November,

the beebalm and all

its company cut down,

the sky white,

the only iridescence

a blue Mylar balloon

caught in the crown

of the black maple.


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