The Hummingbird (Poetry Month)

 by Mary Oliver

It's morning, and again I am that lucky person who is in it.

And again it is spring,

and there are the apple trees,

and the hummingbird in its branches.

On the green wheel of his wings

he hurries from blossom to blossom,

which is his work, that he might live.

He is a gatherer of the fine honey of promise,

and truly I go in envy

of the ruby fire at his throat,

and his accurate, quick tongue,

and his single-mindedness.

Meanwhile the knives of ambition are stirring

down there in the darkness behind my eyes,

and I should go inside now to my desk and my pages.

But still I stand under the trees, happy and desolate,

wanting for myself such a satisfying coat

and brilliant work.

 

 

What Do We Know: Poems and Prose Poems by Mary Oliver

Da Capo Press, 2002