The Phoenix

by Lynn Michael Martin

One evening bright with blazing cloud
I climbed a rocky crest,
and saw the Phoenix, tall and proud,
building up his nest.

He built his pyre upon a hill
as barren as a skull,
dragging the wormwood in his bill,
the cypress in his claw.

His plumage purple was, and brown;
he heaped up withered moss,
and dripping blood from back and crown,
he laid the logs across.

I saw him stand against the west,
the sun descending low;
in lonely sorrow on his nest
he bowed and watched it go.

And then he raised his noble head;
I saw him shameless stand—
against the swiftly-fading red
he bore a blazing brand.

But brighter yet his eyes of fire
that burned with living flame,
for he forswore upon that pyre
all dread, all fear of shame.

And downward plunged the burning light,
and upward sprang the fire;
he cried with triumph, and the night
echoed and rang in choir.

And all that night I saw him burn
atop that barren crest.
And in three days, when I return
I’ll see him leave his nest.

Lynn Michael Martin is slowly learning that he is not the center of the world.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy