Relativity

While a hummingbird scans it for wires 
the red rosebud explodes in slow motion, 
the two velocities firing simultaneously. 
Riddled with inconsistencies, the rose is 
brushed in green air outside a screen door 
as if the hummingbird painted by numbers. 
Which square —there a moment ago —when 
the screen door slammed and Nancy walked 
back through the house forever — which 
square altered the very form of her? 
At what point did she converge with them? 
Her shadow’s figure disappeared quickly 
down the hallway, the sound of her step 
on the wooden floor receding in echo, 
her laughter calling after, “Come on, 
it’s time!” Oh, had I known in time, 
I would have stopped her with a word. 
The hummingbird, there, a moment after, 
or was it a moment before the slamming 
of the plain screen door, darted in 
from nowhere and hung in the frame 
of the screen on the air in my eye 
from where I sat that moment rocking. 
It brushed the air against the rosebush, 
burst in its little blur like a droplet 
of water on a watercolor painting . . . 
That was last spring. It’s winter now. 
The rose is gone. Nancy’s gone. I’m 
still here. Rocking. And the humming 
bird’s still there. Painting the air.