Phoenix Poem by Michael Walker

O, city of the sun and desert dust,
You are the cradle of the lone, the brave,
The birthplace of the saints who battle lust,
Where the prophets made their secret grave.

Across the camel's back to the Cave Creek,
The cacti bear their thorns into our side.
It is the mystique of mesquite we seek,
And primroses grow where our love has died.

Rise from the ashes, rise, reborn, arise!
As bougainvillea billows in the wind,
And to stormy skies the creosote cries,
Asking why ever the first man sinned?

Jesus must have met the devil here,
To fast and pray and conquer over fear.