Writings by Tim Girvin

In my hand,
I've cut flowers,
and they are already passing,
in their blossoming -- some,
have stayed, others flutter,
incarnadine, to the green
weavings, of the grass.

A hummingbird comes,
studying the tremor,
of just my hand, in
holding these. And begins
to lap at the movement,
wings beating in strident
urgency, turning back,
the hairs on my arm,
as I hold the shears,
in the other.

I can see her eyes,
as tiny orbs; yet I'm
certain that I do
not sense all that her
world reveals.

Her feathers are like
a sprinkling of armour,
dedicated to beauty, in
defense of the world.

She, like I, study other
flowers, for each of our
gatherings. Each -- food,
of one sort, or another...
(Originally sent: August 2, 2004)

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