The Firebird Does Not Learn

She is an egg and every shadowed glance,
every silent forest destroys her.
She is newborn and the shark-tooth grit
of the earth clings to her wet eyes.
She is in flames, the jeweled fire
that everyone remembers,
and then, what she had not foreseen,
She is burned and not consumed.
Burned. She feels her feathers
knit together. Burned. It hurts her
to heal. She is still.
She dreams of the next dawn,
a darkness, a nest of ash.

The Firebird, illustration by Edmund Dulac


Mr. Apron said...

Another beautiful literary offering.

However, Kate, I speak from experience when I say that it is the Woodpecker, not the Firebird, that does not learn.

The one on my street will never, I feel, give up his quest to fell the telephone pole at the corner.


Kate Horowitz said...

Maybe that will be Part II: "Also, The Woodpecker Is Not Too Bright."

A limerick, perhaps.

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