Hangs from a rusty wrought-iron hook
nailed onto the railing of our tiny porch
with the haint blue ceiling
off of our bedroom.
There is no exact science
to mixing the color haint blue,
but my husband figured out something–
his intention are always good.
How nice it would be–
if someone would hang a feast
out for me–one I could fly to whenever,
sip a little, breathe in the local landscape, see
what it’s like to just be–
all racing wings and heartbeat,
spectaculat green feathers,
a ruby throat,
brandishing a beak.
Today those vibrant little hummers
have found the firecarackers–
shimmering fuchsia bee balm,
reaching up to the blue, blue sky–
they were your idea, along with the daisies
and dark yellow black-eyed Susan’s
I like it when we sit out here
with our morning coffee
planning what we might do next,
under our haint blue sky,
hoping for a life
without too much mischief.