The Phoenix

This golden vessel weighs creakingly

upon the crux of the ancient wooden structure,

soft and damp and feeble.

This tall sepulcher glows a little from its mouth,

this ancient wooden structure prone

behind its dead tree scraggle-roots and thorns.

This golden vessel rests in the midst and shines through all,

this little precious empty thing, long longing to be filled brim-high.

It turns the water of the eyes to wine so lovers can be drunk on loneliness;

it widens and is large enough to bathe in,

if you know the words to say:

Oh God.

God has not forsaken the vessel of his making;

that which no one values gathers dust unhindered.

This golden vessel weighs creakingly

upon the crux of the ancient wooden structure;

this heart leans heavily upon

the dry beams of a love once new.

Make of a love a crucible,

and the vessel will emerge from flames

bearing its ever-truer form and face.

Oh God, this ancient wooden structure!

Who could have imagined

such heat from an old flame?

*

The truer form is stirring in the glowing ash:

an indistinct, beauteous shape

like a bird with new, clean wings.