Hummingbird Wings

There is no poem that can tell

How hummingbird wings

Make of time a useless ornament

Their motions formed from it

Their beauty enameled in it's

Element- and yet divorced from it

And separate, azure fields of motion

Through the moment but thoroughly

Threading together all of it: into

Singular motion melted

A poem holds not the secret

Key with which it climbed formless

Air as if it clasped upon bars of iron

In swift motions

Yes,

A poem can hold no telling

And yet as this descending

Night can never blot from

My mind these images so

Also I have contrived

The impossible- hoping

To outdo time, premising

It on leaving each verse

Written artfully

To leave even one mind still

Burning, that even one thought

Could trail beyond the province

Of this paper

And even as I started writing

The night has already begun

Descending, and on the day

I wrote these things just

As every other day the nectar

Of life was slowly fading

I could try to bejewel it

With shards of beauty

But regardless what I was

Doing each moment the

Tumultuous ending was

Still molting;

And so I wrote this poem

Hoping to leave some

Part of me trailing

Beyond my ending