My neighbor complains about his bee balm,
that scruffy plant with multiple identities:
ordinary bee balm one day, aristocratic
bergamot the next, whose oil
was favored by the umpteenth Earl Grey.
And then there's Oswego tea, and the name
preferred by botanists - Monarda.
It spreads too fast, he says.
It's taking over
Ah, but I have watched
those mop-haired clowns and
wondered if the hummingbirds love them
as the experts say they do.
And even while wondering, even
in the act of walking by, wondering,
I've seen a flash and blur,
a tiny jeweled body, wings purring;
have seen it rise from among the red
descend again to sip,