All through the winter she has bloomed for him,
this common-looking shrub whose name
eludes me, nodding at my window -
ready with fresh scarlet buds
for his curved bill's adept insertion
and withdrawal, glistening with nectar,
having caused no ill.
Their exclusive symbiosis still astonishes.
I expect the tightly-furled red blooms
to suffer trauma, wilt,
yet these intimate encounters
leave no trace discernible…
I anticipate that rival birds
will want to claim his place,
but still he comes alone, and none
contest his sweet monopoly.
Morning, noon, and late,
across the sill the myna's eye
meets mine, as if I'm integral
to his ecstatic ritual.
*After writing this poem, I learned that the
flowers are called sleeping hibiscus.