A phoenix rises from the ashes, is it Ash Wednesday, or resurrection, or soot from the chimney, midwinter, a creosote threat, sparks climbing the night sky, seeking distant cousins. The Perseids and Leonids flash, Astro fire, cat’s-eyes glowing. The phoenix lust, and foxfire, the moon, hidden behind clouds, bows at the torii gate. Heaven and earth. Wind and sky. Fire in the head.
I am the word of science, the song of Amergen, as he set forth upon the land of Ireland for the first time. I am the fire in the head, I am a work of art rising from the ashes. Bone ash, white, hot, bonfires to couch, the sun, to bring it back after the darkness.
My great grandfather drove cattle between two bonfires, their mad eyes glowing as they charged forth. Holy smoke anointed the sky and settled down, phoenix, rising. The tears of the phoenix will heal the mortally wounded. But after hearing one truth but she waited so long. When the bird lands, the land, the air is transform by fire. Flight and wings of ash falling down to earth nourishing it.
11/12/2004 Writers’ Group
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