The hummingbird searches, 

Distant places, tirelessly 

For that ever-elusive bromeliad flower

Whose essence she craves — 

To quench, if only for a moment,

To grasp what always slips away;

Glimpses of her mother’s deep love 

Passing through membranes

Of joy, wine, and sorrow.

And when it happens,

It brings her down, to the roots,

To a fetus in the womb —

To her place of deep solace,

And then, it’s gone.

She waits, longing, 

Knowing its intensity,

But when it comes, it overwhelms—

For the strums

In the fabric of love

Echo with unbalanced resonances—

With vulnerability, with the fear 

Of losing what she longed for.

Now she balances 

Her love with boundaries 

And working at the retreat, in nature

She finds her grounding.

The flower now has passed,

She makes an offering 

Of marigolds, lilies, and corals on a shell

On a wooden plank by the rocks, 

Gleaming in red, orange, and yellow,

The blue ocean behind.

And in that balance, 

She finds her solace.

She stands by the door,

Wearing a woolen overall

Red tassels and hanging furry balls

Her lamb by her side—

The one who gave her the wool.