Joy - Carol Casey

The Elders say, Hummingbirds bring joy.
Where do they carry it?

In their oversized hearts, invisible wings,
ruby throats, green bodies?

There was one in a bucket
of water in the garage.

What made me stop,
turn around, find it still alive?

Pure joy, a bit soggy, but grasped gently,
let go, for joy can’t be caged, called,

enticed, seduced, implored
or even deserved.

It’s just here, then gone as if some rare,
vagrant song pops it out of

the fabric. A brief jewel, yes, but one that
stores itself in some hidden, oddly

sunlit region. All you can do
is not wait for it.

Carol Casey lives in Blyth, Ontario, with her husband, hundreds of books and a large garden. A retired nurse, she writes lots of poetry and a bit of copy (to pay the bills). She is desperately in love with her three amazing grandsons. She also knits bath mats, slippers and bags out of old sheets and T-shirts. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Prairie Journal, Sublunary Review, Plum Tree Tavern and other publications and anthologies.  She tends to crow about her poetry accomplishments at Facebook: @ccaseypoetry; Twitter: @ccasey_carol; Webpage: