sonnet to the hummingbird

small heart, why do you explode
against yourself each dewy morning? I yearn to stroke
each feather that folds backwards in your tightened skin.
does each rib expand in heat as you shudder through the air?
in the garden, beyond the honeysuckles,
my eyes trail your swirling flight. my skin is taut
over my bones, and I dream of being small
and warm in someone’s hands.
oh, tiny muscle, filled with ice,
how long does it take your blurred form
to die? two years, and I still wake aching to pink morning,
my wings’ thousand beats stilled by my cradle of nest.

—Kinsale Hueston is a first-year in Timothy Dwight College.

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