Autumn Fleeting
by Annette Sisson

The hummingbirds at the glass feeder
            have migrated, crossed the Gulf of Mexico,
      their wings lathering warm air
                  in figure eights. I wash my hair

one-handed, left arm thwarted
            by an injured shoulder. It rests on my desk
      as I write, fetters me in gauzy light.
                     Outside, wasps and honeybees shrink

from a gulf fritillary, margins dark,
            scalloped, forewing spattered black.
      They swarm the ruby tube, guzzle
                  nectar from flower-shaped ports.



 

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