The Hummingbird

It’s embarrassing to write a poem
at first, until it takes you by the arm;
to think of words as sparks of sound
that leap from heart to heart alone,
a conflagration set in stone.

As for subjects, 
they just appear, 
like the startled hummingbird 
burning red and gold
with a high octane panic,
rising boldly from the darkest garden,
to query, in hung isolation at my window.

I think he comes just to stare,
at a poet he hears 
fluttering somewhere.