Poetry Friday: Phoenix Feathers

Observant readers may have noted that while I love fall, with that love comes anxiety over winter. I guess this poem is me reminding myself that I get through this every year; winter's part of the cycle, not The End. (Unless we're living in Life as We Knew It, in which case the sun has been blocked out by volcanic ash and we're all screwed.)

The next task Stephen Fry sets in The Ode Less Travelled is a sestina, but I wasn't feeling that ambitious. Just the same, I decided to play with repeated end words, cycling through them like the seasons... or something.

Oh, and Mom? If you're reading this? Please note, it's happier than the last one.
 

Phoenix Feathers

With fall comes the phoenix, darkening the sky
with outstretched wings. It swoops down to our ash
tree for its final roost, its feathers a blaze
of vermillion, cadmium, copper—a fiery sweep
bold against the blue—until a strong wind
rips feathers from bone, stripping limbs bare,
showering shimmering flakes. The bird cannot bear
the coming winter, cannot endure the savage wind.

The fallen feathers soften our steps as we sweep
them up, rake them into rusty barrels, set them ablaze.
Our throats swell with savory smoke and flecks of ash,
as charred phoenix feathers swirl back to the sky.
 

Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Check It Out!