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.