Octave of the Rising

The timber of the summer wind
playing among the orchard trees,
grooming, combing their leaves
so that the brown ones fall gentle and lilting,
graciously landing on the summer-baked earth
today is heaven's breath resounding.
The charred remnants, ashes
of dusk brush burnings spark remembrance
of the blessed flame
that blazed eight nights ago
as the blooms that suckled on the purple breast of dawn
hallow the hours with their round-the-clock fall
The daily birds flitting from tree to tree:
foreshadows and afterglows
of the Phoenix who had forsaken the ashes
and vanished into my heart to be its fire.

Second Sunday of Easter, A.D. 2006