Think of a hummingbird
with badly clipped wings,
its flightless heart still stirred
with its flutterings,
yet unable to flap
ten times a second,
due to some strange mishap
not quite yet reckoned.
That’s how an idle brain
lingers in disuse,
slowly going insane,
failing to work loose
the taut sinews of thought
with breaststroke motions,
its stagnant neurons wrought
with inert notions.
It cannot drink nectar
from a flower bloom,
staying in its sector
while other birds zoom
here and there in the field,
flower to flower,
their fast-beating hearts thrilled
with Summer’s power.
Meanwhile the clipped bird stays,
unable to fly,
caged until its last days—
sad, longing to die.