Sometimes I forget that I can legitimately call myself a "published poet," having had two poems published in the Christian Science Monitor several years ago. Yesterday's post about mother's day and hummingbirds at the fuchsia and the feeder reminded me of one of them, published in 1998 (for a guess).
My Neighbor Complains
My neighbor complains about his bee balm,
that scruffy plant with multiple identities:
ordinary bee balm one day, aristocratic
bergamot the next, whose oil
was favored by the umpteenth Earl of Grey.
And then there’s Oswego tea, and the name
preferred by botanists—Monarda.
It spreads too fast, he says.
It’s taking over
Ah, but I have watched
those mop-haired clowns and
wondered if the hummingbirds love them
the way the experts say they do.
And even while wondering, even
in the act of walking by, wondering,
I’ve seen a flash and blurr,
a tiny jeweled body, wings purring;
have seen it rise from among the red
descend again to sip,