Transition

white flowers whispering,
weep, then be well,
as my shoes thud against
the pavement, the hardness
of a long winding and
uphill journey toward
the unfolding of the sacred
I. being of light and
womb, I walk with shadows
cast at angles and alter
lenses to capture and
beautify the warped
quality of realities that
a cold, dark winter whisks
away. we have stirred
the ones who know, plead
for rest and renewal, then
rising. does a phoenix
fear flying again just
because she remembers
the feel of fire, the hazy
sight, the gray of ash?
we knew this would not
last, simply deferred our
leaving.