I pray for the phoenix, wishing
she didn’t have to burn
just to start over.
All that ash to again just become.

I plant seeds in my soot,
push my fingers to deepen
each hole, keep other birds
from feasting on them. Drip
water from cupped palms
over my charred past turned
fertile earth and swallow
the sun as it shines. I’ll hold that light
inside ready to share in exchange
for growth. And when the sun
won’t seem to rise,

I’ll water them again.
Each salty falling drop
a blessing, a promise
of fiery blooms bursting forth.