From the pile of ash and melting snow
lies an ember hatchling ready to grow.
Through the passage of time it’s provided us light —
its crimson wings bring an end to each night.
Both beauty and danger as thorns to a rose,
in licking the air it smolders and glows.
Sprouting feathers of flame so fluid and bright,
stepping out of its nest and taking flight.
A methodical path like the hands of a clock,
it blazes the trail and commands the flock.
A piercing eye hunts the shadows of death;
risen from the east and it sets in the west.
Perched high atop the funeral pyre —
it lives and dies by the way of fire.
Those trapped in the cold all gather to mourn
until it rises again, the phoenix reborn.
Latch onto that hope so you can carry on,
it’s always dark before the break of dawn;
but just as the phoenix soars across the skies —
from the ashes of life, your sun too will rise.
