The Birth of a Poem
By Christopher Sopher
Valley of the Sun Press – Story: The Birth of a Poem
November 25, 2025
It’s a perfect Phoenix afternoon. 3 p.m., sun blazing, sky a glassy blue. The heat presses on my back as Daisy and I walk inside the compound, weaving through the quiet streets beneath the towering gaze of a mountain. There’s a breeze—one of those desert breezes that shifts from a whisper to a tug—and when you find the rare pocket of shade, it holds the soft, honest coolness of 77 degrees, untouched by the raw intensity of the sun.
Daisy’s ahead of me on the sidewalk, trotting with her usual rhythm, nose low, ears perked just enough to catch any shift in the air. And then it happens—the breeze pulls a small violet bellflower loose. A Desert Bluebell, rolling along the pavement like a living thing, cupped like ruffled cuffs on an old shirt sleeve.
For a heartbeat, Daisy freezes. Her ears tilt—not alert, but curious—and she watches. Watches as if this flower were alive, as if the wind were telling her a secret. Then she moves, paws light and playful, following the tumble of that flower as it skips along the sidewalk.
But something clicks inside her. She knows she won’t catch it. So she stops and simply watches, sitting back, head tilting left and right, eyes locked on this tiny rolling mystery as it dances across the concrete and drops into the gutter.
And then, just above her, as if summoned by the same spell, a hummingbird hovered near the iron fence lining the sidewalk. Its wings blurred to invisibility, but the sunlight caught the green along its back, the glint of its ruby throat flashing like a tiny gemstone. It darted in place, tilting midair to sip from a bell-shaped bloom—another Desert Bluebell clinging to life in the cracks near the fence line. The bird shimmered like a fragment of light itself, a feathered spark in the dry heat, dipping its long beak and tongue into the ruffled violet flower like it was sharing a secret with the wind.
For a second, Daisy and the hummingbird felt like reflections of each other—both locked in quiet wonder, both caught in the pull of the desert’s soft magic.
I stand behind her, quietly observing this quiet connection—the wind, the flower, the dog, all part of the same strange, simple desert magic. Ten seconds stretched into a little eternity. No distractions, no calls to hurry, just the pure stillness of letting Daisy have her moment.
Moments like that… they slip past when you’re not paying attention. But today, I caught it. Or maybe it caught me.
Desert Waltz
By Christopher Sopher
Valley of the Sun Press – Poetry: Desert Waltz
November 25, 2025
It was the hour when the sun
lays heavy on Phoenix stone,
where the breeze moves like a whispered spell
between the shadows and the blaze.
Daisy wandered ahead,
ears soft with curiosity,
nose low to the sidewalk
where a single Desert Bluebell
—folded like cuffed silk,
ruffled edges kissed in violet,
a bell small enough to hold a hymn—
tumbled in the wind’s secret breath.
She chased it gently,
the way a child might chase
a drifting dream,
until even the chase became stillness,
as her head tilted,
left—
then right—
watching that flower roll
beyond the curb,
carried off like a story
spun into the gutter.
Above her,
I could almost hear
the whir of wings,
the shimmer of a hummingbird
flashing ruby-throat or midnight-black,
a dagger of light dancing
against the desert sun—
a feathered flame drinking deep
from that same kind of bell,
where nectar hides in velvet pockets.
It gleamed like broken stars
caught in flight,
glittering as if some fairy
were laughing just beyond reach.
And for a fleeting breath,
the flower, the breeze,
the bird unseen,
and Daisy’s wondering eyes
all folded into one hush—
where time unraveled
and nature wrote her poem
right there on the sidewalk,
while I stood still
and let it be.
This, It’s grounding me to stay in the moment—
Even, Look do you see what is happening—
Looks, My reminder is to pay attention—
Like, Then by a supernatural force—
A, These magical poetic words—
Bell, Will be turned into this—
Flower, Beautiful Picture—
Do, Within your own—
You, Mind Eye—
See, Look—
It? Now—
Yes! —
🌼
C
R
A
Z
Y
D
A
I
S
Y
T
H
E
P
U
G
