It was a hummingbird hovering over my head, 
but sounded like the whine of an arrow entering the mark,
a vibration of string, feather to air, a whirr that compels,
shaft and fletching striking the heart unaware.
Yes, I have planted butterfly bushes and shrubs 
in between roses and lavender with my love.
I have kissed my wife amid bees. 
                        

We were born with emptiness in our hands 
and kept clutching it until we believed in our mothers
that our fathers would not steal it away.
We learned to relax our fingers to let the emptiness go
until we became old and remembered only the hunger 
of our fingers and our palms remembered absence,
and emptiness returned like a long-lost friend 
we’d welcome but did not want back.
                        

You joke that your walk finally has symmetry,
the left hip grinding with arthritis
and the right foot’s big toe with tendinitis
from taking the load from the left hip
producing a little hop to your gait.
But an earned grace comes from your stagger,
evenness of wobble that permits an orbit
no less beautiful than the seasons produced by earth.

May my spirit grow old the same.
May I learn to compensate for my errors.
In my friction, may I show an elegance.