We are not settlers.
We can be convincing
with thank you notes and compromises,
but there is always truth –
the Hummingbird beating its wings
at the kitchen window — a buzz
in the back of our heads.
We aren't grateful to settle
and we only gained what we didn't want.
We are not settlers.
We accept that we can't see everything
and then try to do it anyway.
Hand-in-hand crossing roads
into untraveled pastures
where the hummingbird wanders;
so close to the busy street
yet so far from the world.
We are not settlers.
Idle wings bring boredom and death as
we are only hours from starvation.
Our next meal can only be found
in the rising sun, the center of a flower,
those subtle glances, unforced tears,
new conversations, the secrets of the world,
and in this self-made promise:
each night, as we collapse
in a puddle of giggles and sweat and satisfaction
we know that tomorrow we will be
just as clueless as we are today
and just as hungry.
—-
I have not written anything poetic in quite some time. I feel awakened.
