The Blackening

The Blackening

It’s tricky to wake up.

When the wind stops
It’s early enough
to take my image in the mirror,
a blackening.

The sun goes, nonetheless,
like the feather back into the skin.
Light behind the clouds.

I tie my hair back
In the direction it grows against.
There’re many of these tiny observations
to break into, at the start.

I boil water for coffee
and I melt a spoon in the cup.

It’s only in the morning that I
ask to be the phoenix,
rhapsodic in her solitude,
a distilled, fiery mess.

I drink dark coffee
and watch what catches fire…
yet, nothing.
The wind quiet through the yard.

There is still too much work to do
before sublimation.

light constricts and a darkening
is expected.
Light filtered through leaves and a crow
by the window.