My Mother was a Hummingbird

photo by Amanda Delsohn

photo by Amanda Delsohn

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.

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15 thoughts on “My Mother was a Hummingbird

  1. Love this, Linda! And I’m so honored to know that you drafted this in our writing group! The only thing better than hearing you read it (and you do read it beautifully) is seeing it on the page. It’s perfect!

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