Hummingbird
The hummingbird thumbs
A flower of thought
In its tongue
Of Indian ink
It sips and spills
A thousand souls
Before it spills
Its own,
And piercing the wind
Like a mountain peak
With the weaving
Of a soul to keep;
This little bird brings us
Sweet pressed blooms
To incense us for hours
In the glory of love
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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