By Gary Weibye



To Gather Hummingbirds

We sought to gather hummingbirds:
To satisfy their tiny palates
With nectars sweet,
Made with sugar in our kitchen
And dangled from our deck
In a red decanter,
Each element our best.
It seemed important at the time:
To satisfy, to please, perhaps delight!--
To measure up to blossoms, somehow,
And nurture smaller beings.
Some quiet urge: puzzling, odd.

But being shunned
By such diminutive souls
(Frantic, momentary blurs, really)
Would wound us:
Offend and disappoint.
We made the nectar rich, then,
And worried and watched.

And, for a while, nobody came.
Aloof, they seemed,
Off there in the void.
The decanter spun in the wind,
And so did we.
Was our recipe at fault?
Was our brew too sweet? too bland?
Was it too hot or cold?

Nobody came. And that hurt us.
We felt slighted, insulted, inadequate!
And sad.
We learned about anticipation,
And humility.

Much later,
After tentative hoverings
And dainty probes and fly-by's,
Furtive experimentation,
Three tiny, persnickity characters
Absolutely swarmed
About our red hanging!
Three! Everywhere.
Out of thin air!

They tasted and tested
And accepted. And returned and thrived!
And honored us.

Mere crumbs will attract the rest,
But it takes cuisine
To gather hummingbirds.