Inspiration arrives in many forms; why
is mine elusive? Perhaps I do not stop
to look at trees, immune to nature's guile
and grace. Won't you make the rose desist
and drop her poignant beauty; imagine all
the dreamers she would fail!

But you, my little moth-sized bird, you're
neon glittered throat, your vibratory wings;
you are just as fast and brief, nearly hidden
by magnolia stamens. You and I grow wild,
grow secretly into our favorite flower; not
a shadow or a petal misses our departure.

1 comment:

Marty said...

Indifferent illusive inspiration - so hard to hunt - so hard to hold – not unlike your hummingbird - a bird (not) in the hand...