A Phoenix Blue

How many times we have
                      risen
from the ashes
of some ruined
               dream
of some broken
               promise
of some word
            unspoken
some deed
         undone.

How many.

If I could
          draw
with other than the
words that so often fail me,
If I could
          paint
with other than the
ink that bleeds even here, even
                               now,
I would
       paint
            Her.

I would paint
             The Phoenix
Blue
that is
       Us.

Her wings are
             indigo
lemniscates.

Without beginning
without ending
they flow,
vast and heavy
              yet
light and clear,
from the steady cerulean
flame
that is her body.

Compact and strong
that body is,
diamond hard
             yet
downy soft,
Newborn
Everlasting.

Its supple spine
                extends
to a tail of limitless
measure that
trembles and falls,
quavers and drops
in perfect time with
those phospherant wings
like the quavering vibrato
of a coloratura just before the
                                shattering.

But silent.
So silent.

Not a sound rises
from wing or tail
as she cuts the smoke-filled
air of her latest,
most pain-filled
                Death.

Until
       Until

High aloft she opens her mouth,
that crystal-sharp edge of her
                              luminous
face, that has
withheld
guarded
swallowed
so much
so many
for all these
             endless
lifetimes.

But no more.

No More.

For this time,
from these ashes,
she rises full-voiced
sure and strong and
                   pure.

And the song she sings
is Ours and Ours alone,
a deafening silence 
to all other ears.

To us she calls
as never before,
her throaty cry
breathless, broken,
ragged from the
raging flames, but
certain, strong, and
                    true.

A song
of roads not taken
of paths not chosen
of endings
          Overcome.

A song of Love.
A song of Life.
A song of Hope.

Our Song
        Forever
Thanks to
          You.

The Quickening

There was a time
when I forced my
heart to close.  When
bitterness and anger
were my brothers.

I was young then.

Now, the luxury of
darkness is no longer
mine.  Now, I can afford
only to live in the light.

I am no longer young.

I, like my world, am
past the mid-point, past
the time when cynicism
and doubt are useful, if
not necessary.

I am not quite old.

But I am old enough
to know that even the
moon is light; that
even the night cries
against the darkness;

That we must feed
each other.  Or starve
in the heart of great
plenty.

©sdrogers 2 may 2013