Four Decades and a Year

What I couldn't see then

To the hummingbird

I injured

when I

was seven:

I’m sorry.

I couldn’t see you,

because I

couldn’t see

me

I had no eyes to witness

your beauty,

your magnificence,

or the family

waiting for you

in a tree

not far away

you were so small

so fast

so alive,

and shimmered

through the shaking sight

of my BB gun

I took your breath

while holding mine,

without knowing why

four decades and a

year later,

I still dream of

your wings

their purr

dampened

by the leaves

I finally see us both

in ways I couldn’t then,

my hand to my chest

my face to the floor

my lungs are

the nest

to which our

breath returns,

and I know that

we were always

the same

---

If you enjoyed this newsletter and found it resonates with your own life, please also consider becoming a paid subscriber, which helps sustain a space where we can explore difficult emotions honestly, without the pressure to have it all figured out.