AFTER PASSING A KIDNEY STONE

The spear-billed and

red breasted hummingbird

dips his head in to the

dew kissed tulips.

Spreading his emerald

wings, he measures his

own span like a carpenter

counting degrees of width

to a new door.

Flitting from the yellow

petal's stool and darting toward

evergreen trees, the hummingbird

tweets a faint secret.

Taking root in to the ear

of a traipsing vagabond,

the hummingbird's whisper

lulls him to sleep.

Twisted with pain as

if a dagger had burrowed

its way in to his spine,

the wanderer falls.

Folding his body in

to the dip of earth where

gnarled tree roots form Entish toes,

he lays.

A small prickly stone nests in

the flat open palm of the

soiled man's left hand

like a Robin's egg.

His eyes seal together, and

his nostrils shrink to a pucker

while the still small voice

of the hummingbird's lullaby

softens him with feathery down,

cradles him like a nursing babe,

and swaths him like spring scented bed sheets,

with sweet and welcomed rest.