Both sides now

Away from home today. All I can come up with is a brief bit of moralizing poetry.

The view from
inside the glass
house distorts:
every darting
wren looks like
a stone. Only
the hummingbird seems
driven by harmless
desire. She
hovers, hangs
in place for
a long moment, bill
millimeters from
the pane, still –
apart from
the fury of
her wings. But
of all the ranked
blossoms, what
can she see?
At best, a faint wash
of exotic hues.
What’s drawn
her in is green,
hateful green –
guerrilla foe
who blocks her
every advance,
matches her
zig for
zag but will
not, will not
engage.

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