Rite Of Passage Poem by Ima Ryma

A phoenix bird, she's flying with
The others in an odyssey,
Her kind so often deemed a myth,
But do be winged reality.
She with the others fly by night,
Less likely to be seen that way,
Soaring through sky in the moonlight,
Hiding in rest during the day.
She knows her life cycle will soon
End, and she lets the others know,
Then lands aground under the moon,
And readies as the others go.

In fiery flame this phoenix dies.
From burnt ashes she will arise.