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, … Continue reading 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. . . Read more
Kinsale Hueston