The kingdom of heaven is like
a hummingbird nest, the luckiest
cup of air to hold a breast
of solitude, but no, not luck
but the bitter work of a long beak.
Not work, but a thousand grasses
of kisses. This is time collapsed
to an empty watch after a week
building, sewn and lined with down,
and feathers, a hovering over
a face. You, who art, our Mother,
behold the hollow, your crown.
—John Poch
