That long-ago morning at Ruth's farm 
when I hid in the wisteria 
and watched hummingbirds. I thought 
the ruby or gold that gleamed on their throats 
was the honeyed blood of flowers. 
They would stick their piercing beaks 
into a crown of petals until their heads 
disappeared. The blossoms blurred into wings, 
and the breathing I heard 
was the thin, moving stems of wisteria. 
That night, my face pressed against the window, 
I looked out into the dark 
where the moon drowned in the willows 
by the pond. My heart, bloodstone, 
turned. That long night, the farm, 
those jeweled birds, all these gone years. 
The horses standing quiet and huge 
in the moon crossing blackness.