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The Phoenix

A scarlet bird frolics across the sky,

Its clouds of breath filling the atmosphere.

Twigs of an adjacent tree weave into

And out of each other as if to form

A gigantic, haphazard nest.

We hear a song of woodwind and join in,

Feeling its wings whipping up a gay breeze;

Watching feathers of flame transcend the earth.

 

Please don’t let the friendly gale run colder;

The faint tune roar; the white billows spit ice;

The radiant plumage disintegrate,

And our magnificent phoenix fall

Dead.

 

A.N. I was stressed. And I hadn’t written in ages. So I decided to look to nature, and the autumn afternoon brought me this poem. As the heartbeat rhythm of iambic pentameter suggests, the natural world really does keep us alive, whether it be physically or mentally. I noticed how the fallen leaves looked like the feathers of a phoenix, like Fawkes of the beloved Harry Potter novels; I recognised that my part of the world was in a transitional period from the warmth and light of summer to the cold and dark of winter. And, as a thankless human being, I lamented it.

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