HUMMINGBIRD DIWATA

Today the sun throws on his cloak of aquamarine plume, polishes his golden crown. Today he tires of courting the moon, fickle woman with so many suitors. So much song composed to call her down, there, where hawks perch and where the falcon’s cry pierces the sleek blue gem of sky.

 

Today the sun descends and his aquamarine cloak becomes a field of violets, a handful of rubies. There are so many sweet flowers to soothe the hurt of the moon’s constant thwarting. Even the sun tires of the chase. There are so many sweet flowers, and they open themselves like trumpets to show him their light, their own little moons of nectar. He pierces these fresh moons when he kisses. From his darting wings, his flitting tongue, poems to carry upon seawind and saltwind. Today, he promises them a salve of rain.