When the hummingbird
sinks its face
into the trumpet vine,
into the funnels

of the blossoms
and the tongue
leaps out
and throbs,

I am scorched
to realize once again
how many small, available things
are in this world

that aren’t
pieces of gold
or power-------
that nobody owns

or could but even
for a hillside of money-----
that just float
in the world,

or drift over the fields,
or into the gardens,
and into the tents of the vines,
and now here I am

spending my time,
as the saying goes,
watching until the watching turns into feeling,
so that I feel I am myself

a small bird with a terrible hunger,
with a thin beak probing and dipping
and a heart that races so fast

it is only a heart beat ahead of breaking------
and I am the hunger and the assuagement,
and also I am the leaves and the blossoms,
and, like them, I am full of delight, and shaking.

A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal;
And every blossom on the bush
Adjusts its tumbled head,--
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy morning’s ride.

---

Here is the beautiful Pablo Neruda Poem, "Ode to the Hummingbird".

A great Robert Frost Hummingbird Poem, "A Prayer in Spring".

A modern style DH Lawrence Poem, "Humming-bird".

---

Amateur Hummingbird Poems:

I wrote this poem one late Autumn afternoon.
As my husband was chopping wood for our log cabin, a hummingbird stopped by our feeder one last time before his long migratory journey south.
Sentimentality about the passage of time in general was crystalized by the hummingbird's last meal of the season.