Out of my agony, I came.
Out of the fires that swallowed me.
I rose from the dreary egg of ashes,
a shattered pyre of scorched wood and bone.
I first thought of the landscape,
and my eyes came into being.
There was no more fire,
and the tears erupted and fell
through my spirit to the dust,
where my body rose up
and breathed its first real breath.
I remembered my wings,
each new feather
sprouting into being out of thought.
The old wood and fire
were no more.
In its place were rain and soil,
my body, my blood.
L.B. Stringfellow writes both verse and prose poetry, often exploring themes of transformation, woundedness, and interdependence in her poetry. She grew up in the Southern US, has worked as a university instructor and as a professional tutor, and holds an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing.