Napo 18

Today was a little tough. I encountered some mild writer's block at the keyboard today. I just didn't know what to write about. I thought about abandoning these prompts altogether, but even then I hadn't the faintest idea of what to do. So I returned to the prompt (sort of), which, today, was to write about morning rituals. Mine are painfully boring. So instead, I thought about the morning rituals of hummingbirds and how they kind of wake from the dead each morning. That's miraculous! Amazing! I want to think more about the metaphoric significance of this, this idea of a daily rising from the dead, a daily resurrection. And how it happens everyday, and we still call our world a mundane place.

Here's what I got down:

Miracle, Wednesday Morning

They can teach you a lot, those hummingbirds,
Spring visitors to my porch with rufous faces,
Buzzing wings and ever-beating hearts,
A blade for a beak.

These tiny bursts of beauty
And toughness
Know how to fight
For a miracle, know how
To survive because they must.

In the early hours of the morning,
Before dawn, the world still shrouded
In darkness, chill still blooming in the air,
One perches on an oak branch,
Encased in its tomb of torpor.

The cold Houston nights can kill—
No way to find the wildflowers,
Those swathes of piecemeal miracles
In the thin patches of grass
Along the highway
In the world’s bitter darkness.
Each night,
A crucifixion of hummingbirds
By the lazy sun, the hesitant flowers,
The hunger deep within us all
For something sweet created
From earth and sky,
happens all around us.
Come night, there’s nothing left.

How, as the sun wrenches
Itself from bed each morning, the stone
Of its heart rolls to life again,
Trusting a miracle will stream
Down promptly, on cue,
As I hum my own morning song.
Today, I will rise. Today,
I fill a feeder with sugar water
And hang this blessing from my porch.