A Hummingbird Poem from years ago

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

the garden. 

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

untidiness, pause,

descend again to sip,

then disappear.