Whatever you may call him —
Arisaema,
Bog onion,
Brown dragon,
Indian or Wild turnip,
American Wake robin —
Jack
is
back.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Arisaema — An Image
Cherry-Blossom Path — A Poem
Much is written
of rose-strewn paths;
but I prefer to
tread —
lightly, bare of foot —
the petals
dashed to ground
by recent rain
of the leaning cherry —
still pink,
still damp,
still fragrant.
A blushing robe
discarded;
while nearby,
tucked in switch and
bramble,
the catbirds’ songs
weave and flutter like
scattered, honeyed
light.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Cutting Words — A Dream
Is he aware? That I can hear him? That I stand alone, outside, in the dark, cobblestoned street? I see him in profile, seated in a small, tidy, featureless room, its walls and floor comprised of smooth plaster. The arched entry is doorless, nor is there glass in the similarly formed window. From my vantage, it seems the only furniture, the only adornment to the room, is the ladder-back chair he sits in; the only illumination is shed from a single candle on the windowsill. Warm light flickers, and shadows reach, grasp.
The chair he occupies is pressed up against the wall, just inside the doorway. He wears a collared, button-down shirt, linen pants crisply pleated, and a dark fedora. And he speaks. To someone beyond my line of view? To the empty room itself? His words punctuate the heavy air: “She’s smarter, stronger. Braver. Bolder…” Logically, matter-of-factly, impersonally — he states all the ways he prefers her to me.
As if I had ever been blissfully unaware of his feelings.
As if his every action had not always, ever, betrayed his opinion.
As if it could not ever, possibly have hurt.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Cutwork Dogwood — Images
Dogwood petals
filtering light
in cutwork pattern —
confirmation of
Spring.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Flow — A Poem
Swim
through the maple’s
slip-edged,
ripening leaves
and emerge –
balanced, bobbing,
pollen-flocked –
on the cool air’s
shoals.
Tread –
in full embrace –
softened, spreading
light.
Linger in the greening.
And with abandon,
dive –
into burgeoning
May.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Linden, Clad in Velvet — An Image
I will wear velvet —
chartreuse and supple.
I will arch and extend
up
through draping fog.
I will be lyric
mystery.
— C.Birde, 4/17
Antidotes — A Poem
Walk with me
beneath the bud-tipped spruce –
we’ll lift our hands to collect
the crows’ bewildered calls,
still hoarse
with the memory of
recent snow.
We’ll bend to sip sweet rain
from crocuses and watch
the ferns’ fronds slow unfurling.
Inhale, with me, the lilacs’ promise.
While Mourning Cloaks –
clad in lush dark velvet –
flit and glide about us,
we’ll decipher their
orphic patterns.
For a moment,
we’ll remember;
for a moment,
we’ll forget.
— C.Birde, 4/17
On the Dance Floor — A Dream
Please — don’t ask me to dance. Don’t persist when, politely, I decline. Don’t approach me on this moonless night, in this quiet, wooded glade, and dismiss my protests, pull me onto the parquet dance floor.
You don’t understand. I don’t wish to be cajoled or encouraged. I have no desire to be shamed. I lack your surety, your confidence. Can you not see, how my left leg gives beneath me? How it cannot bear my weight? Do my hands not speak of desperation? Certainly, my fingers – stiff and rigid as they are – must bite at the tender flesh at your neck and shoulders, clinging, grasping?
But no – you don’t seem to notice. You weave over the dance floor. Your scarlet shoes brush the wooden, geometric patterns with your light step. You are ease of motion, liquid in style and confidence. You are unburdened by my gracelessness, my awkward gait and dragging, enfeebled limb.
And when, discomfited, I try to make light of the situation – of myself and my incompetence; when I call my efforts “flop-footed” — you dismiss my attempts at humor. Gravely, you pull me across the parquet floor.
On this moonless night.
In this wooded glade.
Beneath witness, speechless trees.
Trillium — An Image
Trillium waited
in the garden’s corner.
She smoothed the rain from her brow,
shook out her frock,
and —
in her own time,
in her own fashion —
joined
the
dance.
— C.Birde, 4/17
Awaken — A Poem
Stop,
listen –
don’t insist she
shout for your
attention.
You are one.
Her vast rivers flow
through your constricted veins;
Her mountains comprise
your bones,
grown porous;
Her forests guide
your too-shallow breath;
Those wild and untamed places
that reside in your
diminished
heart,
are hers.
Don’t make her shout —
when her mouth is full
of flowers
and her breath
perfumed,
when her touch is
a caress
of budding green.
Bend your ear to hear
her song issue
from the messenger
throats of birds.
Place your feet in her steps,
against her heart’s
steadying beat.
Cherish and protect her.
Remember yourself.
Revive and awaken.
Do not insist
she shout.
— C.Birde, 4/17