Cinnamon

There it was,

a silly bedraggled toy,

set on a shelf,

near something I needed to buy,

drawn to it,

for reasons I couldn’t explain,

I took it to the check-out,

a price tag missing.

 

The young man kept it there,

as I hiked a woodland trail,

and when I returned,

a price and a name retrieved.

 

The name:

Cinnamon.

 

And with that,

a startled reflex,

in heart and soul.

 

Dear Danielle,

sister long gone,

who hung her coats in

a cinnamon closet,

cinnamon sticks meant

to scent the fabrics.

 

Cinnamon,

the spice sprinkled on

the pyre,

of a phoenix,

about to die,

to be reborn,

and the story I gave her,

just before she died,

about a phoenix,

and a boy,

and the promise,

of rebirth.

 

And now,

Cinnamon,

sits on my dresser,

drawn to it,

for reasons,

that I can’t explain,

but

that I understand,

in a place,

beyond all knowing.

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