carriebirde – Page 63

Equivalencies — A Poem

fauna mammal rodent eastern_chipmunk summer nature beauty — “Eastern Chipmunk” — C.Birde, 6/17

If you have one chipmunk,

you have three;

If you have three chipmunks,

you have fifteen;

If you have fifteen,

they will call the day’s news,

in rapid fire staccato,

from the garden bench;

and beneath the old miniature rose;

and from the corner behind the garage

by the rain barrels.

Most likely,

they will excavate

a complex system of tunnels

beneath the side steps

to the converted back porch,

and divert

the flow of fallen rain that

— recently, mysteriously —

began weeping through

the house’s north facing

hundred-plus-year-old

basement wall.

They will expect peanuts,

and will make their requests

from under the lavender hedge;

and beneath the curled, green ferns;

and from all corners

of the house and yard and garden.

Keep a number of nuts tucked

in your pockets at all times,

though this will not prevent them

from heedlessly running

over your bare feet and toes

when you open the door

and stand on the side steps

with that offering.

If you see one chipmunk,

you may see three;

If you see three chipmunks,

you may well see fifteen;

And if you see fifteen,

you had best have your

inter-species agreements

quickly drawn up and notarized,

for the benefit of all,

by a neutral third party.

(The Nuthatch, perhaps.)

— C.Birde, 7/17

Sassafras — An Image

With our backs pressed

to the smooth, silver trunk

of the Beech,

We’ll sip sassafras tea

and decipher the patterns

of steam

scrawled

upon the fragrant

morning air.

— C.Birde, 6/17

Nature trees writing

Green Tonic — A Poem

Fern Wood, Tourne.jpg — “Fern Wood, Tourne” — C.Birde, 6/17

The crush and shout

of the larger world

persists

beyond these fringed,

green borders

where, time and again,

I return

to drink

the Wood Thrush’s tonic

of sung sunlight,

to feel

the fern’s frill-lipped

cool breath against

my calves,

to absorb the drum and patter

of rain upon

the woods’ sheltering

green canopy.

I come to cleanse myself –

of grief and pain and worry;

to drench myself

in green.

— C. Birde, 6/28/17

Wooded Path.jpg — “Wooded Path, Tourne” — C.Birde, 6/17

Nature trees writing

Reflect — An Image

reflection rain raindrops weather nature puddles beauty — “Reflect” — C.Birde, 6/17

Like rain falling,

f

a

l

e

n,

Memories collect

to dimple

the surface.

— C.Birde, 6/17

Nature writing

Sun Day — A Poem

Seconds,

Minutes,

Hours –

The slow and certain accumulation

of six-months’ time

tilts the scales

in daylight’s favor.

Solstice of Summer.

Exultant and unaware,

we blissfully tread

the insubstantial

garment of our shadows,

as the Hours

Minutes,

Seconds

steadily

reverse

their

course.

— C.Birde, 6/17

Light Nature writing

Dated. Faded. Dull. The hotel room, though clean, desperately needs an update. Carved, shag carpet. Once-modernist, flocked wallpaper. Matching coverlets spread over twin Formica beds. And red. So many shades of red – scarlet, crimson, burgundy. The room glowers, sullen and ruddy.

Across from the beds, an old television cart holds a large tube-style black-and-white TV. The set is switched on, and an old film flickers. Images of staircases cover the screen. Crossing and intersecting each other at impossible angles, each seems to have its own dimensional reality, similar to an M.C. Escher work. A woman, with tumbling long hair, dressed in long, dark gown descends one of the staircases. As I watch, my sense of origin slips. For a breath, for a moment – I am that woman, caught in a flickering black-and-white world, descending a shadowed staircase within a repeating landscape of tilting, dim-lit staircases. I clutch a handful of gown, lift it up to avoid tripping on the hem. I hear the soft tread of my slippers on the unyielding stone steps. I feel the weight of my hair.

Noise. A saving, sudden sound, and I am yanked back, find myself standing within the red room, staring at the television. During my brief…absence?… a repairman has entered. He has set his toolbox on the sunset, shag carpet at the foot of one bed, spread his tools across the other bed’s coverlet.

“Those old movies give me the heebie jeebies,” he says. “Especially the monster ones – vampires and werewolves.” He catches my eye and shudders dramatically. “Good thing you’ve got company…” He jerks his head approvingly toward the far wall and continues sorting his tools.

From that further, narrow wall, where there is neither door, nor window, a steady stream of people begins to enter. The small space is soon crowded with bodies and chatter. The last to arrive is a life-sized cartoon-style Popeye, complete with pipe, flexing bulging biceps and chewing spinach.

All the while, the television’s grainy images continue to flicker and snow.

— C.Birde, 6/17

dreams writing