Sevenling (The New Day)
Through the white wind I fly my broken bird
head on fire, wax wings worn wide, shedding
singed feathers, ground a heaviness pulling from below
and then I wake again to the next life of this day.
Plucked naked, flame out, no wings to be seen;
a reprieve, or something harder than earth
stonier than the end?
posted for real toads
Open Link Monday
This poem is a sevenling. I first heard of this form through Marian (runaway sentences) when it was referenced on real toads. Here are links to one (two) of her own sevenlings posted on her blog, and also the explanation of the form, derived from a poem of Anna Ahkmatova, at The American Poetry Journal.
Image: Impossible Flag CXVI, by procsilas, on flick'rShared under a Creative Commons 2.0 License