A Hummingbird Hymn
Hummingbirds, so small and swift,
a reminder of our ancestral gift.
Your colours of emerald and ruby,
an ancient reminder of love and beauty.
You fly with such amazing grace and ease—
an ancestor’s blessing, a refreshing breeze.
Your wings flutter in the air,
as if to say, “You’re never alone. I am here.”
And some of you vibrant red and blue,
connect us to our past through and through.
You bring us joy and light—
our ancestors’ love, a sight so bright.
Hummingbirds, so small and swift,
a reminder of our ancestral gift.
The Day You Saved My Life
So easily we can fall
into darkness,
as easily as the sun
slips into its horizon.
I will never forget the day
you walked into my place—
where I sat with lights off,
surrounded by used tissues
on my floor,
eyes swollen from hours of tears,
and you asked what was wrong,
and why my window shades
were down to hide the sun,
the very thing I needed.
Suddenly my shut heart opened
to your tender words,
and how you took my hand
to hear my unspoken sorrows
as you hugged my heart
in such a compassionate way.
How a hand squeeze never felt so good,
like the opening of a spring flower
on a rainy day.
Love begins like this.
The Secrets I Carry
I am a tree—
roots extending many generations
of carrying Semitic roots:
green eyes and black hair,
all in my bark.
I see the manifestations
in my children—
one blonde, one brunette and one black;
they carry memories of their ancestors
from Hawaii or Poland—
we are all connected by a thread,
and the stories they’ve shared
have sustained me and led me
into my next chapter
of hair one day flowing down my back,
the next day in a bun on my crown chakra.
The lines on my face can be counted
like the circles of a tree—
so many aging clues,
but none more than the stories
that have woven my heart
into one empathetic soul
who listens to all with compassion,
just like my beloved Quan Yin
who sits regally on my desk corner.
A Child’s Fear
My fear of the dark
began on a winter evening
at the age of eight,
when I walked down
the creaky wooden stairs
of my childhood home,
headed to the kitchen for an apple.
When I looked to the snow-filled yard,
under the full moon,
my eyes caught a clownlike figure.
With onyx dots for eyes,
a woolen mask was slipped over his face.
Behind him,
a large shadow on the sparkling snow.
Was he a ghost looking like a joker?
He jumped from side to side and signalled me
towards him. I wanted to run away,
but still hovered between a child’s curiosity
and an adult’s fear.
My instincts made me run.
I scurried back upstairs
so fast, the railing burning my hand.
At the top of the stairs,
I peered down the dark stairwell—
was the swooshing sound
the joker or the wind?
Safe in my room,
I landed in the arms
of my Tiny Tears doll
holding space on my bed.
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