the phoenix

The phoenix and I -
we've been missing each other for months.
She flies in circles around me;
I chase her many-plumed tail.
I cry and she faintly sings,
perched among the treetops.

I know that she is afraid -
I see her feathers molting,
her color fading,
her song growing ever more quiet.
No one knows this:
For a phoenix, rebirth is scary.
The descent into ashes
withers the songs and causes
cold tears to fall down
upon bright red feathers.

The brittle lines of winter trees
form the cage for her months of mourning.
I stand on the ground and watch her,
whispering what words of comfort I know.
Sometimes she looks down at me,
And behind the fear I see wisdom
in her beautiful fiery eyes.

I know the day has come
when I hear no singing out my window,
no rush of feathers to greet the day.
I go out into the cold grey world
and find heartbreak:
a pile of ashes in a forlorn bird's nest.
She was so beautiful,
the phoenix.
Last spring her songs were full of joy -
then they turned swift into a lament.
Now she is ash,
quiet and cold,
all beauty gone,
all fire put out.

For a while, I rattle around this house;
I hide under cushions and in cracks.
I can't bear the silence,
so I put on some music,
but it only makes me remember.
The etchings in the grey sky - tree-branches
tell a story that I cannot decode.
When the wind gathers the ashes
and storms tear apart the nest,
I think that she will never come back.
I can't bear the silence,
so after a while I start to sing.

Drifting through these wide rooms,
my feet padding over cold floorboards,
I let my voice escape my mouth,
words flowing senselessly.
While making tea, reading the newspaper -
doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom -
baking a cake, watering the houseplants -
I sing to fill the empty spaces
in a time of winter-white and ashen grey.

My song grows;
my voice strengthens.
A melody emerges,
and a storyline takes shape.
I sing until the days become distinct
and sunlight patterns emerge upon the floor.

I sing until I lose my voice.
One morning in March, I get out of bed, have breakfast,
and realize that I am hoarse
and cannot even speak.
Then I glance out the window
and see a bright flash of red.
I dash out onto the porch
and suddenly song fills my world -
rapture and victory,
joy and memory -
the sound a child makes when he is done crying,
the sensation of tears falling down to the ground,
the vision of cherryblossom sunsets,
and autumn trees subsiding.
Most of all,
the clarity of the morning
after the rain-washed night.
There can be no mistake -
this is the phoenix-song.
As she boldly flies past me,
all fire and light,
she winks and preens her orange-red feathers,
and sings up to the sky.