Hummingbirds

It matters how the stirring waters
fall into our thoughts,
the weight of liquid, heavy like a dark, spring cloud,
muddies the heart's wanderings,
turning sunny yellow pondering
into ruddy, mud-slick floors,
changing a land-locked sense of certainty
into an island, damp with questions.

It's best when the rain falls softly
to break the shell of silence
that seals us into quietude
rather than being deluged,
flooded by the worried self,
that watcher, called Ego who
imposes layer after layer
of false god images over us.

Wanting to escape being alone
is not the same as the desire to 'not be'.
Yet a universal veil
covers each of us with an illusion,
a blind-spot given to all our earthly eyes
that causes us to believe
that spirit touching spirit
is a mirage, something unattainable -
always just out of reach.


Surly God knew first that 'to feel alone',
was, in itself, the main cause for grief.
So today I will cover your head
with halos of love,
longing to convey somehow
that I see your true beauty.

Yet if I speak my love
and my longing to share
a common joy in linear time,
I fear you may soon recede
like the evening tide.

There is an unwritten law
that we all follow:
the desire for embracing
fenced off by a compulsion for autonomy.

Like hummingbirds, we tread air –
are constantly moving,
always beyond any resting place,
drinking deeply,
while looking back at what was,
tasting what is
and dreaming of what shall be
when we fly away.

© Anne Bryant-Hamon
“Somewhere Between Heaven and Earth"