Out of the hummingbird’s nest, instantly searching,
the tiny babes fly
into the greening beyond their front door.
Out of the comfort of velvety armchair,
instantly sending from iPad, the poet
sends messages beyond her front door.
Out of creativity, her poems sprout wings
like fuzz on the hummingbirds–wings that fly
searching for someplace to rest.
Out of her heart constantly searching
for just the right word, the exceptional title
The poet leans back in the velvety chair
and wonders just where
do the hummingbirds go.
Then she recalls the red honeysuckle, the
hum as they feed on its juicy
Out of her memory, the red-bloom perfume
rakes raw her senses, brings back
the night that
he stood beside her
in light of a buttermilk moon.
Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols