Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine

Who doesn’t love

roses, and who

doesn’t love the lilies

of the black ponds

floating like flocks

of tiny swans,

and of course, the flaming

trumpet vine

where the hummingbird comes

like a small green angel, to soak

his dark tongue

in happiness -

and who doesn’t want

to live with the brisk

motor of his heart

singing

like a Schubert

and his eyes

working and working like those days of rapture,

by Van Gogh in Arles?

Look! for most of the world

is waiting

or remembering -

most of the world is time

when we’re not here,

not born yet, or died -

a slow fire

under the earth with all

our dumb wild blind cousins

who also

can’t even remember anymore

their own happiness -

Look! and then we will be

like the pale cool

stones, that last almost

forever.