Phoenix's Prose

We pulled into the onyx driveway, which was hinted with pools of the old father Winter, right after we stopped at the local Irving down the road. The clouds were wisps of spookingly genial gossamer that filtered the light of the moon and turned it into a crystal glow. The garage light was on while the chopping sound of wood directed us to your untailored company. Softy in the background, old “70s” music refreshed the usual beauty of Fellini and Brahms with the spark of Queen and “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie.” Never has that music felt so real.
We gather the twigs and logs and make a bird’s nest for the newly born phoenix that would become a scorching memory in the fireplace. This phoenix was maturing in front of our eyes; it started with an intense blaze that conducted us to dance the Swing and Jive like frogs hopping across a campground road. Then, it started to slowly turn to embers that were like pieces of luminously crimson gold.
The burning emotion inside me that climaxed in cause of the flames wholeness and fresh nostalgia made me realize that the fire of true compassion is the hottest, yet most resolving. I think of those pieces of gold in front of us: that wasn’t my real treasure. As I looked into each of their eyes dotingly and felt the wistfulness of those caring hearts, my soul became so much richer.

Villanelle of Snowy Stone

The snow never seemed so lifeless,
until the day they left me alone.
To whom can I redress?

I have so many regrets.
My body is stiff as stone
The snow never seemed so lifeless.

My granite neck becomes nerveless
as I drift from friends and home.
To whom can I redress?

I crumble in my loneliness,
and I turn to sand and bone.
The snow never felt so lifeless.
To whom can the lonely redress?