My mother was a hummingbird.
Taking quick sips of coffee,
gesturing with child-size hands,
punctuating sentences with drags of an ever -present cigarette,
she darted in and out,
her thoughts flying past so quickly,
they’d disappear before you could grab one.
High strung, nervous was how slow minds
with lumbering bodies described her.
And all the while her wings danced circles around them
leaving behind microscopic feathers for calling cards.
I sense her sometimes now
as she darts into my atmosphere,
vibrating at the speed of light,
a different species on an alternate plane.
She hovers near me,
I reach out and hold her tiny body in my hand,
her speeding heart stills,
and we rest in each other.