Hummingbird Morning

Eight o’clock,

I believe my biggest

Fear to be this:

Never getting to

Live out my dreams-

See the hummingbird 

On the feeder? He does not

Care about his fate as

The next bird does-

He won’t drink from the feeder-

Frightened that I might harm him,

Say, what if he passed away,

And never drinks?

That bird’s baby birds will hear

How he never tasted the liquid

From the bright flower

On this cool morning.


The Artist Up Above

This leaf

No kind of pine could ever

perform the somersaults

this leaf can as it sticks it’s landing

in the half brown grass.


Somebody, somewhere,

swirled His paintbrush

in the warm tones on His palette

and held it to the Earth,

dropping the paint on the summer leaf.

This little piece of a delicate scene

became adored by people who build skyscrapers,

operate cars, and throw waste to the Earth’s core.

Yet every year, that same Somebody

keeps on dipping His brush to the palette

and creating the leaf that stands out among the others.

In the Cracks of the Sidewalk


The weather was nice

His skin golden and ready for more

Never seen him before

Says he’s in my class

Must be sitting behind me


Disappointment in the sky

But in the cracks of the sidewalk

Pollen piles up

And a tear in the sky reveals warmth

I am as sad as the sky

Because I didn’t meet his eyes sooner

They were blue enough

To fill the atmosphere

And banish the gloom

So I smile at the pollen

In the cracks of the sidewalk

It doesn’t occur to me

That I didn’t ask his name

Because it’s overcast.