Molting Phoenix Feathers

 



Life is the coming of new seasons,
the warmth of good tidings,
the familiar scent of maple sap.

It’s the colour of baby blue
the shells of new hatchlings,
new leases and lost jackets.

It’s the phoenix from beginning to end,
the love that I’ve learned in parting
and a child‘s idea of forever.

It’s a poet born again
a muse freshly sprung from the earth,
a reason to be, a reason to stay.

It’s the voice of ancestry,
reincarnated at the totem
by the dying light of a cobble hearth