Feather

The first arrived
in an envelope incased,
nostrils flared, perfume.

The second, I guess,
may have been on that curious Corvid, in ‘Man at Crossroads’.

Third, held aloft, Blackbird,
on some wispy June evening,
sky yearning.

The fourth, let’s say, Phoenix.
Cast into a Samhain cauldron, let go and then surprise, risen again.

Fifth, in faith – if even a feather.
Of a new sun birthed, not of woman,
but this man, shaman, and the One.