Phoenix
 
On the first morning after 
the last child leaves the nest, 
and you descend the stairs, 
naked as a lark, 
 
wild with more ways than song,
determined to send by your breasts
the emptiness from each room
and burn with rhythms 
 
muted at this age far too long, 
may I be man enough 
in the kitchen not to run, 
 
to recognize, pouring your coffee, 
the source of that flame
surging from your eyes, 
your awakened skin—
 
to speak only your name 
(while setting down the cup), 
and by opening my arms
let the burning begin.