Hummingbird

I want to fill my mind with music: angry loud passionate
while I speed over country roads, accelerating hills,

every window sending wind to whip my face.

I want to face the thunderstorm, arms raised to churning clouds,
pulling lightning from the sky, lips tasting the rain mixed with my tears.

Screaming, crying, moaning, that music in my head;
I want to dance to it, feet lashing grass and dirt,

kicking up dust and flowers, stirring the wind, the air,
the heart of God with the movements of my body, its ceaseless energy.

I want to run.

I bury my hands in moist earth kissed by rain, by me, soaking into my fingernails,
the crevices of my skin, my toes, staining my knees dark as midnight shadows.

I pull weeds, baby trees, uprooting the vines that choke my treasures.

I want to fly, like the forgotten eagle, the hated crow, suspend myself in air,
a hummingbird—still, despite the rapid beat of my wings.

I want to move like a river, plunge like a waterfall, pulse like the ocean
dancing with the turbulent sky.

I consume the sun’s rays until my skin glows
from the ball of fire raging in my soul.

I will stand like a magnolia, powerful, majestic,
even after my flowers have fallen.