My Hummingbird

My hummingbird does not arrive,
it materializes, like an answer,
suddenly not there and then is,
an invention on emerald fly wheels,
a drone-whirring of liquid engines
suspended among the blooms
on threads of wind and magic.
What force each morning
commands him to my garden?
What bottle green and flaring fuse
holds him in the air like that,
doing his work like a good soldier?
Growing older, I see lessons
in everything. We fret and frenzy
our way among the islands
of our lives, afraid to touch, seldom
bending with an open heart
to the love that kneels before us.
My hummingbird takes it one
blossom at a time, balanced and
alive in every moment, remembering
always that there is only one way
to kiss a bloom, and that is full,
on the mouth, like you mean it.