The nest, half a walnut, about; two tiny, unhatched eggs,
and this, November, cold after a rare storm spun off a rare named one, back east, brought rain, right between the harvest and the harvest festival, as far as city folk imagine… I must assume, no, allow, no, imagine, I must as far as I might say I know, say these'll never hatch.
The flax will be just fine, though the wheat will just be fodder.
i took a walk today in the garden and saw a wounded bird trying to fly, her wings were broken as she gasped for air, with every raise she lost a feather but i could tell she knew no better, her eyes searched the sky waiting to be found, chirping for what sounded like eternity
And then I saw it, At dusk, beating its small wings. A guest from heaven.
My grandma passed away a few weeks ago, and today would've been her 88th birthday. She loved hummingbirds. I saw one today, at dusk, while talking on the phone with my aunt. It felt like a sign from her that she was okay, and that's she with me.
Right in the center Between my brows The third ajna eye Calls out to the crowd Consciously choosing Who to meet Consciously moving The world ‘neath my feet Consistently bruising Ego’s covering, Shell so battered It’s nearly shattered. Hovering like those Sacred birds Iridescent wings In my dreams Answering to nature’s Haunting calls Answering to future And destiny’s pulls.
It was a surly heart that I received through the facades of this place where I could no longer feel the intensity or the port thins in Hummingbird.
From where I reach the households that were lively as it is, now is just a muffled lullaby, not wanting to be heard.
For once, I knew, we are the shambles we let them in we let them see until now we follow I could not find the dimmer.
Has gone through the running walls of this world the pit was so deep ghosts passing tireless and ageless lost for once again.
From where they are reborn into the blackness where the void remains an imagination a fantasy where the minds tackle for the parallel, from which they waver and perish, an ambush.
Now I drift and ramble till I picked up the ticking second falling from the top from when it lost me, 'tis now the moment to be created again. When a soul is fallen, that is when he is found.
Memories of warmth colors bringing back the place of yearning, back then is only a muffled lullaby, now is a peeking peekaboo! If uniqueness as it is and that later than mortal is now a vital colors glowing as it is — in the pavement of Hummingbird.
My last piece was a wreck and I am quite satisfied from this poem! :)