Perhaps it’s the light today, but
Look—the rhododendron bush
With its thin, yellowing branches
Seems a rib cage, clenched and frail.
And these petals but rags of flesh
Drying in the sun. Do you hear
A whicker like thin steel on stone?
This is not the snickering
Wind of August moving dust grain
By grain, petrifying stems.
Among the rhododendron’s ribs
A hummingbird blurs its wings;
A small heart thrumming frantic to
Moisten these bones, their marrow.