Fire Bird

The fire bird is

identified again.

Trees blow up

in the forest

where once

their wings and

throats were colors

of forgiveness.

The cottonwood

outlining my window

totters again.

Every year,

the fire bird scorches

what you can’t have.

It is not his beauty

that I regret.

It is the cry

to those that listen

to the bird—

“I burn them now.

Someday, I will find you.”