Phoenix Rising

Firebird stole every tree canopy and kookaburra song.

Left nothing but pale ash.

We parked a beat-up silver caravan where our house burned.

Wife and I planted eucalypts into empty spots.

Pink buds flower on charred black stumps.

Ferns spring lacy green.

Grass trees spike.

The bush is no longer just ghosts.

Phoenix-like we’re rising from cinders.

Hope, my wife calls it.