Phoenix drops down from her silver perch
to gaze into my inner eye
when dawn brings her
in a flood of liquid rose.
She stands beside me, restless, waiting.
Sees my rage, my utter disappointment.
I immolate under her vastly approving gaze.
She slides the shaft of her brightest golden feather deep
into my heart where
my tears burn.
Are they apt fuel for a holy fire?
And after the burning? What then?
Every once in a while
it seems that
fresh water is released from some
forgotten inner well
and my tears renew.
She weeps with me then.
Rivulets braid their way down the mountains.
Inscrutable, Phoenix bows her head.