The Hummingbird

In spring, something glimmers—
a pulse at the rim of sight,
wings stitched from light and sound,
vanishing before I find its center.

It arrives not like a visitor,
but like a memory—
just out of reach,
swirling in the currents of a season’s breath.

What does the air know
that I don’t?
Why do certain moments
arrive, shimmer, and disappear
without apology?

Each movement is a question,
small as a coin held in the palm:
What hums beneath us, unseen?
What traces remain
when everything slips away?

And still—
it feels like enough:
the blur, the drift,
the soft promise left behind
as petals scatter
through morning’s open hands.