pretending flowers

light dropped
from a great height
makes no sound still

words now
would be thin and
near to useless

hush, since
it’s futile to
say you are my joy,

and watch
the hummingbird search
the warm, red bricks

pretending
flowers where
there are none

© Sarah Whiteley

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2.16.2015

I can’t forget that day the hummingbird

darted through the snow – you slept through it –

content with the dogs in a patch of morning sunlight,

which found and stroked the red-gold stubble on your cheeks

the way I wished that I might without breaking your sleep

ruby-throated

here is where I begin to feel
all the familiar airs
that rush of woodsy musk
the heady hint of rum
they’ve assembled
here at thin wrists
and between breasts
to intermingle with thrums
low hums of pulse points
with infectious restlessness
and I am left as emerald-breasted
as ruby-throated as the hummingbird
we caught only glimpses of
amid the summer quince

© Sarah Whiteley