Relationships are more important than wrinkled fingers;
I'll stay in for just ten more minutes*
watching the trumpet vine's spectacular encasing
of the trellis on the deck.
Orange instruments for flowers,
I'm surprised they don't sing jazz riffs
as the hummingbird moths suck their nectar
against summer indigo night-curtains.
I watch them from my warm-water seat.
Are they hummingbird moths or real hummingbirds?
For a second, I am always unsure
I'm entranced, eyes glitter and then
disappointment.
They are never real hummingbirds.
They never have been yet.
My fingers are wrinkled now, but I'm not old
I still have time for real hummingbirds:
I'm sixteen
and trying really hard
to enjoy hummingbird moths
for the time being
when hummingbirds
are just nowhere to be found.
*I was in the hot tub alone.
