Ode to Hummingbirds
I wear many hats. Literally. I wear a big, floppy hat for gardening, a cowboy/fedora looking thing when I am outside doing anything but gardening, and a gray ball cap my sister Kelli gave with the inscription Dog Mom on the crown. The latter is my favorite. The not-so-literal hats I wear could fill a closet, one especially designed for hats. But today, is about the metaphorical hat I wear as a writer. I love all forms of the written and spoken word: stories, poems, music, ancient texts to modern day mysteries. I don’t go anywhere without a book. They fill my house like pieces of art or furniture. I also love to write. To get my thoughts on paper makes me feel like I have accomplished something as grand as completing a mural or painting the side of building in graffiti. I step away from my work satisfied. I wrote that! I think. I also put words to music, plucking my guitar quietly when no one is around. One thing I don’t do is write poetry. It seems elusive, like something on gossamer wings floating just above my earthbound comprehension. So, imagine my surprise when my friend and extraordinary poet Nora Snyder asked me to present an original poem at an event she is hosting next week at the University of Arizona on the Sierra Vista campus. The event is called Poets in the Garden. It is a fundraiser for the Southeastern Arizona Bird Observatory, and the theme for poets is hummingbirds.
“I’m not a poet,” I said. My inadequacy caused me to sweat.
Nora appeared unfazed. “Maybe you could be on the planning committee.”
It was a way out. “Sure, I can help.”
Weeks went by, and I was impressed with Nora’s leadership. She arranged a group on Facebook and an interview with the Sierra Vista Herald. She designed a flyer and even arranged a bake sale where my dear friend and baker extraordinaire Jaimi Hogue will be donating some scrumptious sweets. At some point during this creative energy storm, I decided that yes, of course, I could write a poem! I called Nora with the news. “We have to be in Tucson that day, but I will be there later,” I said.
Again, Nora acted like this was a perfectly ordinary request. “I will put you on near the end of the program,” she said. “Send me a bio and a photo.”
Hands shaking, I hung up the phone. What the hell? I thought. You’re not a poet!
As the event date loomed, I sat for hours at my computer or on the sofa in my favorite little, dark nook in the den with a notebook hoping for inspiration. I studied the hummingbirds that darted in and out of my tomato and basil plants. I asked my cat Truffles if she had anything to say on the matter. I was desperate.
Then something divine happened, a miracle of sorts. While getting ready for a dinner date with my husband, I heard an interview with author James Parker who was sharing anecdotes from his book Get Me Through the Next Five Minutes: Odes to Being Alive. Some were inspiring. Some were funny. Others were ridiculous, and I found myself laughing out loud. And then it struck me. If this guy could write on topics such as, “Ode to Crying When Flying”, “Ode to Naps”, and “Ode to Squirrels”, certainly I could write an ode to hummingbirds poem.
I am nervous to share this here, and I am guaranteed to be a wreck next Friday night when I read this aloud in front of strangers. It feels like taking those songs I sing in the shower or in my office when I am home alone and performing them in a packed stadium. But here’s the thing. I am getting too old to worry about what others may think of me. I have spent decades worrying about what I wear, how I sound to others, making mistakes, or failing as a partner, a friend, a family member, or an employee. The list goes on. It’s time I just breathe and be grateful that I am here on this gorgeous planet surrounded by writers, poets, and musicians who don’t expect me to be perfect. Instead, they just hope I show up. So here I am, showing up with my poem:
Ode to Hummingbirds
White-winged Doves, House Finches, and Black-throated Sparrows swoop in each morning. Feeders full of seed, they perch on ivy along the fence. Their bodies dull and leaden alongside the hummingbirds that dart between sun’s rays like something on the tongue, gone before spoken.
The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America rests open on my desk from where I admire the birds that light in the backyard on trees, shrubs, and on the bird bath I bought last summer. From window hammocks the cats’ ever vigilant alarms chirp: “Birdie! Birdie! Birdie!”
David Allen Sibley identifies sixteen hummingbird species living among us in these desert lands. So scientific a way to categorize and define beauty.
In a small cloth-covered box labeled Stationary, a stack of eight notecards gilded with Rufas, Broad-tailed, and Black-chinned Hummingbirds wait patiently for written words to delight a friend. The label should read Bygone Era.
A Ruby-throated Hummingbird, her mate, and a charm of chicks adorn the Bone China coffee mugs my mother-in-law left me, a reminder of her love for things delicate and whimsical.
A Broad-billed Hummingbird suspended in flight, hangs on the wall above the sofa in the living room next to the Gamble’s Quail painted by the same local artist, Marcela Lubian. Like her, I fancy birds.
The hummingbird: A fleeting gift wrapped in dazzling hues. An ancient song carved from hollow bone strung with feathers. Their music the winged duet of cello’s trill.
