I am often found

trancing in the

death drop love dance

of the hummingbird.

The wee engorged upon

the fragrance of

yellow blossom,

harbinger of a

humble fruit for

crimson or vermilion

wine, for jellies, jams

and pies, fine renderings

though I am one

with small patience

for such craft.

Inclined instead to

take the offering

as body and blood

straight off the sprig,

a grape and citrus tang

drawing water from an

aching jaw for the

spitting of skin and seeds

along the trail for a

yield of many tomorrows.

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