The lantanas are mostly deep green now—
only just a few daring red buds.
My quail chime, in turquoise and copper,
is silent and still.
There is solitary dancing, though,
at the hummingbird feeder—
a dark, flittering joy
against pale clouds
and amber glints of sunlight.
The patio couch pillows
in desert hues
are beginning to pop bright
in the growing light—
a soft place to land
near my potted sun parasol—
blossomless now. But I
remember them
from September
when the boys
brought it home to me
because you were gone.
Another hummingbird
pirouettes.
Now, in February,
you’re here.
And every day you drink me fully
with your eyes—a summer thirst
in winter, as if to make up
for autumn’s lost, lonely time.
And, I like this
all
just fine.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner