Not a Firebird

Sparks and flames may occur in nature,
but my flightless feathering doesn't 
include flint or steel. I need rather
submission to the imperative whose 
wings are outside my plumage. To 
live is to relinquish, not merely to
St. Peter and Beelzebub, but to the 
four ducks lifting off over the pond,
to the consciousnesses who accept
care and knowing, to the roots from
the maple under my tailbone and 
behind my back, and to its shadow,
a weightless flyer whose certainty
must inspire a fire on my daylight 

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