Bursting from the flames, feet dusted with ash,
wings clutching the air and spreading out fast -
fanning tattered ashes that leave no doubt
of the incendiary shell, your past.
Among all birds uniquely sweet your cry,
rise up to cast your shadow on the sun -
your economy of self a lesson.
Dear tender spirit from a sprig of fire,
living five hundred years the very least,
eating nothing and drinking only dew,
In your funeral pyre, rebirth yourself to
such a pleasant far-seeing winged beast.
Your secret show of immortality;
your ability to set yourself free.
Victoria Vaughn-Perling, Copyright © October 2005
