Phoenix In The Morning

He stands on the hill and spreads his arms to the sunrise,
His joy stretching all about him like unfurling wings.
Just ahead of him, the rich dawn light paints the skies
With visions of beautiful and unimaginable things.
His heart pounds; his sight blurs as tears fill his eyes.
He is free, and royal as a king over all earthly kings.

He opens his mouth, and a swift song from his throat
Rises, spiraling through the sky to greet the bright sun.
Such is the song that makes comets through space float,
A natural roundelay to which all celestial things run.
He has ascended to join them; his soul echoes every note,
And around him the breezes dance like the spirits of fun.

Wild, springing, free, and swift, his song goes roaming,
Moving through the world and touching heart after heart,
Pouring down other throats like wine sweet and foaming,
Seeking out every soul's pore, and infusing every part,
The song of the spirit's sunrise against the deep gloaming,
Like a phoenix in the morning, a work of perfect art.