The artifacts with which you hope to summon
the bird are unassuming—pinecones, twigs,
a lump of dust the breeze keeps trying to steal—
common things to welcome the uncommon.
You chant some words. The morning gently drags
its plumage down the sidewalk. This is real,
but you are disappointed, wanting clearly
demarcated spectacle. All right,
the phoenix wasn’t quite what you expected,
no feathery bursts of ash or fingers nearly
burned down to the knuckle. Only light,
everyday light, and you here to collect it
with your eyes, your skin, your hands and hair—
real fire completing its unlikely flight.
You soak it up, still pouting, unaware.
Hilary Biehl’s poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, Think, New Verse Review, and elsewhere. Her poetry collection, Giants Crossing (Kelsay), received the Poetry by the Sea Book Award. She lives in New Mexico.
Photo by Manuel Sardo on Unsplash
