Fifty Beats Per Second

 

Much art, and sometimes poetry and music, are made

when we are so attentive to a moment that it seems to

happen only because we are in it.

 

 

 

 

Sunday morning rain and again

And again the hummingbird comes

To the last of the fading red zinnia

Glistering again with water-sheen,

 

The dry whirr of wings flicking away

The rain faster than it can fall, and

For one moment it moves so quickly

It is still, hovering in a hole in the air.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 657 times
Written on 2013-09-10 at 17:05

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Nicely written, Fog. I, too, have been marveling at the hummingbirds lately. I can't figure out how they get enough to eat to sustain their hyperactivity.
2013-09-14


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
I find hummingbirds to be a miracle. Your scene and description paint them even more otherworldly. Lovely poem, my friend.

Joe
2013-09-11



I appreciate the sense of familiarity, that this is something you've seen before, you know as part of a pattern: the rain, the movement of the hummingbird. It gives the poem a sense of place and atmosphere. The image of the hole in the air is a nice way to end, a kind of opening for possibilities, or maybe something unfinished.
2013-09-10