Upon Finding a Phoenix Nest

The bones of trees
Picked clean, clustered, and
Washed in to
Intricate compositions.
Sere and laid bare,
Here, where there is
No possibility
Of hiding
One's scars.
The fertile conversation
Of wood grains meeting
Strikes me
As so beautiful
And meaningful;
This piled-up
Bed of decay --
Speckled with
Shell, bone, glass,
Acorn, walnut, smoothed-stone --
So alive
It is twinkling,
Flickering, and
Glistening with
Treasures of
Immeasurable wealth. 
These are the exact conditions
A phoenix uses
To be reborn
To rise.
In the sense
Of becoming,
It is an act
Of negation --
A journey
Of removal.
To find
Our essence
We must be
Whittled down
To the core.

Keeping the Balance

What is it
That we must learn
To embrace
In the darkness?
Fear responds:
"I've made you
So much stronger."
Self-judgement chimes in:
" And I keep you
On track..."
They 
Claim a place,
Inherit and
Inhabit flesh.
It is part of
Keeping the balance.
It is how we spin
In and out
Of control
Simultaneously.
It is how we are
Both living and dying
In these
Flickering moments.
On this borrowed time,
We are meant
To learn
Life is an initiation
In the art
Of letting go.
And, perhaps I've
Spent too many years
Cataloging the things
I've lost and will lose?
Agonizingly re-examining
How and why they were
Or will be
Taken from me.
Maybe I haven't
Spent enough time
Watching, smelling, and learning
From the marigolds as they
Creep across the yard,
Ripe, spicy, and
Impossibly laden
With the perfume
Of death. 
What an
Improbable blessing
To bloom and thrive
Beneath the burden
Of this sickly sweet stench;
To live under
This mottled blue sky.
But, we are all capable,
In life and in death,
Of things
Which we've been
Unable to fully see.
Some times we hear
The echo,
We run our fingers
Along the edges,
Tracing the seams.
And, only after we notice
The cracks in the pavement,
Do we realize:
Things that seem
Fixed and silent
Are rippling,
Quivering, and
Howling
In the night.

Between the Lines

Admist the twilight traffic,
The ebb and flow
Of the city's voices --
A child's cry of,
"They want 19 million dollars!"
And also the black-capped chickadee's
Meal-time discussion,
As the Salsa music floats
From open car windows --
Spiders weave
Invisible webs.
Spinning silken threads
Along and between
The lines.
They are silhouetted against
A clouded, undulating sky.
They dance on drafts of air;
Spinning, twirling
To and fro-ing.
The light continues
To fade on this magical
And insignificant scene,
But neither party
Desires to quit
Our smoke and mirrors game.
And, I think:
Maybe a poem lives there?
In these moments.
Maybe they live everywhere.
Falling from our eyes
Like tears [of gratitude].
Maybe they live
When we hold
Our hands to our lips
And pour in to them
A silent
But powerful
Prayer.