The Hummingbird of Pentecost

A tiny whir, a smudge of green,
makes arabesques
above the bird bath

Only once before
in all the years I’ve lived here
have I been thus visited

Then, it floated, hovered,
and darted out of view
as I stood at the window

My heart having missed
a beat at the sight of
pale fire.

Most miracles, I have learned,
are tucked into the faces of roses
and morning glories,

In fleet and bracing serendipity —
my son’s first heartbeats,
the glimpse of a fawn,

My neighbor who shares a birthday,
the friend unconditionally there,
the queenly cat

Who licks her paws as I write,
the life companion
off for a morning bike ride…

Wait, is all we are asked to do:
still your busy heart, cease the whirring
of your too occupied mind

And remember
the tender invasion of fire
that once brought you alive

Remember its invitation
to stir what in you
wanted to awaken.

This is the work:
even now, long after the bird has flown,
to remember this, so that
you, too, become a pale fire.
Namaste