pencil poised on a note to myself to listen
again to Larkin’s poem, perhaps “Solitude”- I forget.
A hummingbird flew into the cloud of catmint blooms,
sipping quick, on a manic quest to quench some thirst,
in the high noon sun.
On to the bleeding hearts, precisely piercing each
drooping pendulum with its needle nose,
nervously draining drops of life blood – humming.
I’m reading Stephen Dobyns on traditional meter vs free verse;
I wonder where the hummingbird fits as it flits freely
in its’ rhythmic pursuit of bleeding hearts – a fleeting poem.
The tiny iridescent blur bleeds nectar from the base of
pink hearts, slit, perfectly metered for the free flow of
sweetness to the pulsing poems on wings.
One Stop Form Monday