A hundred wands of cardinal flower.
Four lucent hummingbirds swooping
among their spikes.
Flowers brighter than the rubies
of Cartier.
July’s high noon.
In me, seventy four rotations
around the sun.
Twelve million notes of life
made to myself.
Subject for one poem
cluttering the table of time.
Three small boys play in two
sand boxes by my chair.
Creating the village of childhood,
its houses and walls.
Lugging pails of water from the hose,
sculpturing their creations.
I watch the hummingbirds
appear and reappear,
like quartz gleaming on a stone,
and I have quintessential beauty
served on my plate,
food beyond comprehension
for the heart dissolving in me.