She moves among the nasturtiums,
a needle going in and out, in and out,
sewing me to this garden.
(How many angels can dance on the tip
of a hummingbird’s tongue?)
She dips her head in for only a moment,
then backs away,
and pauses after each blossom
and gives a tiny chirp, just a chip, just a ch—
(is it “Ahh?,” or “Thank you?,” or “Amen?”).
Then moves to another blossom, and
another moment, and another, and another.
She works every blossom in the garden,
one by one, sip after tiniest sip.
For her it is not patience, not acceptance,
but simply breakfast.
Our souls are not fed by great feasts
but a thousand tiny prayers.