The Hummingbird’s Death
The hummingbird on the stone walk
outside my door
lay so still
I picked him up tentatively
thinking he was dreaming
but his eyes remained closed
and my eyes found tears.
What happened to you?
I whispered to his softness…
I buried him in my garden
near some sage
and placed a stone
to mark the spot.
By way of eulogy
I wished him joyous flight
and offered prayers of awe
that in my hand
I had held Magic wrapped in feathers.
©photo and poem by caf
Some believe that when a soul passes
it’s leaving arouses the air
dragging the clouds to new places
and the snow to unknown meadows and forests.
We can’t catch the wind
nor can we follow it closely
or even discern it’s path.
But we can feel it’s movement on our cheeks
and in our hair
as it glides around us and rouses our skin.
We can’t see the breeze that shakes the house
or rattles the chimes
But I like to think it is the movement of Spirit
dancing in the world.
And we can know that it is this windy frolic of Spirit
that brings Life to the Earth
and Breath to our days.
~ CAF ~
© photo and poem by caf
Did you hear the wind last night
howling up the creek
whistling in the snowy, twig shaped shadows
of January’s full moon?
Did you see the moon
last blustering night
brazenly brightening the deep sky
dark of clouds?
One time, when the gale quieted
and all sound was frozen silent
I slipped outside in time to see
a Screech Owl fly stage front shrieking
“Wild, wild everything is wild!
Everything is wild!”
The wind rose again as I huddled under a tree
It pushed me through a tunnel
into the reckless freedom of space and adventure,
shattering the stale sameness
that orbits everyday life.
It sang a new way into being and then,
returned me to my bed, freshened,
where the barking spirit of Coyote
stalked my sleep
and dreams dripped into an awakened life.
©Carole Fults photo and poem
Watery wind battered our serene and wondrous landscape.
Fury, darkness, and destruction
were waged upon our bucolic home
as the world we had come to trust rose against us
and the lovely trees and friendly stones turned into weapons
and death came to our neighborhood through raging waters.
In the morning, in the quiet after the hurricane
a tiny buzzing like a bee outside the window,
a flash of a ruby throat
and neon body hovering in the air.
A hummingbird, all of an inch long,
appeared at the feeder,
his biggest need being for breakfast
and a quick trip to a neighboring Petunia blossom.
Where I wondered did he go for refuge in the storm?
How did he manage to live through the nightmare
that destroyed those much larger than himself?
And I think about the children who are battered,
deserted and denied –
where do they go for warmth and hope and loving hugs and safety?
They have, I hope, as does the hummingbird at my window
hearts born resilient
tempered in the fires of loss
and transformed by the power of truth.
Periwinkle wild flowers
Drifting on the wind
a chickadee sings her winter song
Knowing I will also die