THE WINGLESS PHOENIX

He lay
still
quiet, not moving
the hairs on his face real and apparently alive
the mists of snow dripping from his nose and chin
covering him like white, crystal ashes
only his head protruded from the prayer shawl
rapping his cold body
I expected him to shiver
and blow frosty air from his nostrils
his eyes closed
his lips slightly pursed as if trying to speak
as if he knew it was to be his last breath
as if he was trying to scream
to finally say those last things
that we can never say when alive
The coffin  was made only of fine woods
no metals for the dying Jew
just the clear shine of hand-carved sapwoods
cool to the eye
glistening in  the darkness of the chilling night
like a warm, tightly fitting glove
it held him in its artificial womb
in the quiet broken only by the whispering of the cooling winds
keeping him asleep with its soothing lullabies
as if the winds were to stop their song
he would leap from his birth and live again
wingless and ground born
I quietly anticipate his flight.

II
THE SINGING SILENCE

then came the morning hymns
chanting ditties to the budding flora
reaching their long limbs to the sky
like young, flexing muscles
the clouds accompanied with its serenading  landscape    
of chirps and girgles
covering the earth with its shadow
of silent song
warm in its coolness
like the dancing liquid flowing from a young mother's womb
the sprouts jumped into and through the coffin
wrapping my brother's body with its gentle clutch
whispering into his ear its life giving drone
that echoed into the air
prancing with the newly born sun rays
ever so carefully tickling the flesh of his ears
and the tone of the cool morning air
the silent sounds wailed
at once in rejoice and mourning
in the growing light
his lifeless body wingless and ground born
I quietly
patiently  
anticipate his flight.

III
MOURNING SONGS II

First I lost my father
But didn't know the Jew's way to mourn
So only my inner heart sang the kaddish
Each passing day
Filled with the butting chests of males
Blowing steam from their nostrils
Trying to eat my flesh
Inside I wept
Floundering in the viscous sea
Like a fish that hasn't been taught to swim
Then
As my brother died
I lost another.


IV
THE DANCE

Then the dancing starts
the parade insidiously leaks into the night and day
with prancing children
grandchildren, ancestors, great-grand children
singly and in hoards
they taunt the stillness of death
with their understated sway
refusing to let the dying and dead sleep
they swing arm in arm
in jigs and horas
shouting in challenge
to the silence of the night
embarrassing  the dead and dying to attention
with spirit thick with blood
they touch and sashay
with one communal step
I blink
and they are still there
I rub my confused eyes
and they are gone
but I can hear them
and I bring myself up to my knees
then rise
like a newly born pony shivers to foot
precariously balancing his large body
on his spindly legs
in the growing light
I look down upon my brother's  lifeless body
and angrily
await his flight

V
WORDS WITHOUT SONG

time causes feelings
in death that life wouldn't answer
a yearning for discovery
for the secrets locked
in the stillness
tightly latched
in the confines of his fate
I reach out
into the naked night
and remember
remember all the moments that I didn't have the warrior's spirit
to act upon
I lay down by my dead brother
awaiting my turn
breathing
in rhythm with the calmness
as the silence sings
I hear nothing
but feel so much of the unexplained.

VI
DREAMS
Children play
Children's things
In their world without beginning or end
As fateless as a small puppy
They seriously romp
Boundless and hungry
For the ways
That only forever brings.
Then his birthing mother died
And my brother never trusted
Again
Taking his breaths through straws
And his loving through armor
His games
No longer children's things.


VII
MORNING SONGS II

First I lost my father
But didn't know the Jew's way to mourn
Then I lost my brother
And now know even less
Blowing frosty air from my nostrils
In tune
With the winds
Singing quietly
I grieve with my own song
And await the first soothing promise
Of the coming morning
From the darkness of the chilling night
As assuredly as my brother's body slowly rots
In the melting snow
There is the sun's mending breath
For the living
And we gradually step into the dawning
With memories
To hold together our wounds.


VIII
FLIGHT OF THE WINGLESS PHOENIX

The warm snow
beats against my chest
Like a tireless, angry warrior

If only I had known
That I didn't need wings
To fly.