Yesterday’s Light — A Poem

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“All the Light of Yesterday” — C.Birde, 8/16

 

Gather all the light of yesterday —

sun and moon, star and fire,

in shafts and beams and sparks.

Strain thrice —

of cloud and shadow,

and random occlusion

(reserve for another use).

Pour into large, wide-mouthed jar

with tight-fitting lid

and set to distill

in a south-facing window

for three weeks.

Taste, to assure desired strength.

Decant into phials and bottles.

Inhale to counteract the blues.

Dab on pulse points to restore the heart.

Apply to the soles of feet to lighten the step.

Stroke over eyelids to find silver linings.

Touch to the tongue’s tip to sweeten words.

Glide over lips to revive a smile.

Pour over ice in Summer and serve

with mint and lemon slices.

In Winter, heat with cinnamon

and cloves and allspice

and ladle into mugs.

Share with friends, family,

and strangers.

Use generously.

 

— C.Birde, 8/16

 

Friends Who Weren’t — A Dream

I walked with two friends. One brought her husband, the other arrived late. We met to climb the mountain, the path ever changing before us. Initially, our feet crunched over coarse gravel; we wore dappled green and honeyed  light as cloaks and crowns. Next, we walked through a parking garage, sparse of cars and curled with shadow. Finally, we stepped, single file, over a plush red carpet along a narrow aisle that moved in straight lengths, rose in flights of short steps, and turned at right angles through a museum. We passed glass display cases of antique devices — clocks and telephones and radios — until we reached a pair of sunken benches upholstered in red. Sinking into the benches, we sat together before an antique miniature pipe organ set against one wall. A marvel of construction, crafted entirely of  polished, glossy wood and bright brass, the organ was a thing of beauty…until it began to play. Its keys and pedals moved entirely on its own mechanized synchronizations, and the music that blared forth was discordant, cacophonous. Despite this, despite the path’s many mutations, one scene melting into another, the only aspect of the journey that grieved me was the realization that my two friends — who each were so dear to me — had nothing in common, shared no bond beyond me, myself. Unable to build any connection between them, they could only exchange wan smiles with one another before looking  away.

 

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“Lily of the Valley in Stone” — C.Birde, 8/18

 

 

Shades of Green — A Poem

Color of marbles and Luna moths and sea glass,

of raw youth’s inexperience

and cold hard cash.

Color of movements and parties;

the chlorophylled light

of leaf-fringed canopies.

Color of magic and malachite,

myth and tea,

of life and growth and jealousy.

The signature hue of a singular Fairy.

Color of dryads and druids and

emerald isles;

the color caught in Lena’s eyes.

Color of farmers’ markets,

Summer’s ache,

and tomatoes’ leathery leaves,

the too-sharp scent of just-pulled weeds.

Color of woodlands and meadows and mantises.

Moss- and fern-touched,

the shades of green.

— C.Birde, 7/16

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“Green” — C.Birde, 7/16

Down — A Dream

Built within a natural cavern, this enormous, sub-terranean facility spreads as far as the eye can see, recedes into shadow. A vast metal structure is anchored to the ceiling far above from which depend industrial light fixtures strung at intervals from thick cables. Highly polished floors gleam bright white. The horizontal aspect is interrupted only by a handful of lectern-style stations scattered about the otherwise empty space. Uniformed workers in hard hats move between the stations to monitor them, adjusting dials and switches, pressing flashing buttons. Though my companion and I look utterly out of place in our jeans and t-shirts, the workers do not deviate from their tasks as we pass. Our footsteps throb and echo.

We soon reach the object of our search — a large free-standing structure that resembles a sleek, stainless-steel armoire. On closer inspection, I realize it is a free-standing elevator. My companion presses a raised button on a burnished panel, and the elevator’s thick glass doors slide open noiselessly. Once we have entered, my companion again presses another button. The doors seal shut, and the elevator begins its descent.  We head far, far below, to the facility’s power source — the heart of a nuclear reactor.

The elevator gathers speed with each second of its descent. Soon, my ears are filled with a faint “whooshing” sound. A dull red light begins to fill the downward shaft. I glance at my companion. He is silent, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed above the glass doors to read the flash of numbers indicating our plunge. His apparent calm does nothing to alleviate my growing panic, which soon escalates to hysteria. Heart pounding, breath restricted, I spring at the burnished panel, indiscriminately punch buttons. When the elevator shudders and groans, interior lights flickering, I find the faintly luminous “up” arrow and lean the heel of my hand against it.

The elevator responds — agonizingly slowly. Reversing course. Beginning its initial ascent. Gathering speed. My panic is similarly slow to depart.

 

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“Down” — C.Birde, 7/16

 

Native Honeysuckle — Images

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“Lonicera Sempervirens – Native Honeysuckle” — C.Birde, 7/16

 

Planted to tempt hummingbirds,

native honeysuckle climbs and clambers

up over the garden arch,

wriggles amongst the privet,

stretches and tumbles unrestrained

in quest of sunlight.

Scarlet success on all counts.

— C.Birde, 7/16

 

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“Lonicera Sempervirens — Native Honeysuckle Tumble” — C.Birde, 7/16

 

Summer’s Night — A Poem

 

 

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“Summer Night” — C.Birde, 7/16

 

Long has Orion

slipped below the horizon.

The dog stars run loose

over the vast dark sky.

Crickets strum

barbed legs in song.

And I lie awake,

considering

the heat-washed nights

of Summer.

— C.Birde, 7/16

 

 

 

 

Four Bears — A Dream

Neglect shrouds the bungalow. Abandonment. Crouched at the hill’s crest, the structure is slowly engulfed by a silent chaos of overgrowth and tangled tree shadow. From dark unpaned windows, beneath low-hanging eaves, the house peers vacantly down the hill. The air of neglect extends beyond the bungalow in a radial arc. Sere, unmown grass slopes down and away from its front door. Pale seed heads nod and bend, dip and shush with wind. Wildflowers, their petals blanched of color, float over the grassy sea like moths. And, standing chest-deep amidst this lawn-turned-meadow, are four scrawny bears. Arranged at equidistant points in a rough square, their coats are lank and straw-brown, and they are heartbreakingly thin. Their dark eyes consider me where I stand, far below, and then, as if they are a single unit, they begin to bend slightly at their wrists and ankles, flex at hips and shoulders in a pulsating fashion. They remain, otherwise, rooted in their paws, standing in the derelict lawn, staring. Eyes as wide and dark as the bungalow above them, grass and fur commingling, they stand and stare and pulse.

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“Four Bears” — C.Birde, 7/16

Morning Heat — Images

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“Reservoir Haze” — C.Birde, 7/16

Haze thickened air

stretches over morning’s tender hours,

accompanied by the ratchet and whir

of cicada chorus —

promises of heat to come.

— C.Birde, 7/16

 

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“Reservoir Bridge” — C.Birde, 7/16

Casual Gardening — A Poem

The benefits of casual gardening,

detailed in small passages –

 

Mystery squash,

casting tendrils toward the Burning bush,

abloom with ulterior motive.

 

The weed pail

filling,

before the work is done.

 

Rogue tomatoes,

erupting from loamy beds

and window baskets,

pushing aside rhubarb leaves.

 

Fireflies and ladybugs,

and slim-limbed mantises,

and beatific bees.

 

Queen Anne’s lace,

tatting the yard and

adorned in cabbage moths.

 

Patches of shade,

rotating about the house,

cool refuge from the sun’s eye.

 

Leeks’ heads

nodding heavy crowns;

bindweed

twining and trumpeting

 

Lady’s thumbs,

tickling catmint;

Black eyed Susans

studying Swiss chard.

 

The small yard

taking shape under

Nature’s guiding hand.

 

Near-motionless rabbits

nibbling sweet clover;

quick chipmunks

excavating neat holes

beneath tonic lavender;

and everywhere,

everywhere,

the stir and song

of birds.

 

— C.Birde, 7/17

 

 

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“Squash Among the Tomatoes” — C.Birde, 7/16