Poem: Penny The Phoenix


Penny The Phoenix

had been around long
enough, and around
again after that,
to know a few
things about
the way of things.

She knew the seasons
of the year, even
the motions of the sun,
who she often thought
of as a sort of sister
flying even higher
than herself.

Penny knew, too,
her own seasons,
the changes that
she cycled through,
aging again, feeling
that sense of an ending.

She wondered, each time,
though, if it would be
a return, once more,
and pondered, often
if the wintry grounds
worried each time
if the sun’s rays would
bring them thaw,
as she, always and forever,
doubted if once more
the flame at her core
would blaze again.


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