by J. B. Sisson
I buried him two years ago today,
the first day warm enough to bask outside
and watch the fluctuation of the tide
and spring’s migration north at last in May.
As usual, there is nothing more to say
when the whole world has been transmogrified.
Dr. Burney said just before he died,
“As in a dream all this will pass away.”
There came a sudden whir around my head,
and a gray blur distilled a hummingbird
back from Quintana Roo, deep green and red,
full of the tropic gossip he had heard,
back from Quintana Roo, back from the dead,
abuzz with his insistent single word.