"Overflowing, hanging off the edge, out and down,
a mid-September pot of flowers on the porch-railing
doesn't know—or doesn't care—its life is almost over . . .
Then suddenly a hummingbird; not one of ours—they
have gone—but a migrant, transient, just stopping by
for a quick snack on its way to South America . . .
Oh! look, see what's here!
So beautiful, so temporary,
like you are me."