that the hummingbird
with its minuscule proportions
should remind me of my papa
who as a baby slept in a shoebox
but as a man could scarcely find a bed
long enough to keep his feet
from hanging off
What an enigma it is
that a shimmering insect of a bird
calls to mind the mill worker
who moved steel for a living
with bear claw hands
and hard helmet nails
What a mystery it is that I can see
the slow moving gentle giant
in the zig and zag of an avian wisp
And yet, when it flies overhead
the flutter of soft wind on my hair
reminds me of his cheek
resting on the top of my head
the glint in its iridescent feathers
is the wink in his blue eyes
Nothing can rival the hummingbird heart
save that of a hard working long loving
proud Slovakian whose hands
were large enough to hold forever
whose heart is light enough
to float on the breeze of eternity
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