Burdensome book,

made entirely of wood –

cover, binding, pages;

two inches thick,

maybe three.

A tome-ic weight

upon the lap,

the knees –

biting,

pressing,

depress-

ing.

Pages click

as readers flip

the rigid leaves,

select the word

that suits,

describes where,

in life, they find

themselves –

physically,

spiritually,

emotionally –

& slide aside

small wooden tabs

to reveal

the associated page &

turn as indicated.

Click,

slide,

flip;

click,

slide,

flip.

Fall behind taking time

to consider,

to deliberate;

volume of wood

spread wide

across the knees…

Search row and line

for the word

that properly describes

the core of prevailing

sentiment…

To no avail.

Of the many words carved

in those manifold

wooden pages,

neither “grief”,

nor “sorrow”,

nor “melancholy”

are found.

Observe –

the others all

depart,

move on,

while one

remains,

left

behind,

a-

lone.

 

 

— C.Birde, 3/20

 

Quick.

Get in.

No time to spare.

We’ll row

row row the boat,

rosy, fleet, & lean

through the churning

choppy sea

to save the pink dol-

phins.

Row

row row the boat,

rosy, fleet, & lean,

grip the handles

dip the oars

& save the pink dol-

phins.

Repeat,

in rounds.

Repeat.

 

— C.Birde, 3/20

 

 

Wait…

He pauses,

hesitates…

Were they always

there?

That set of stairs –

flaking yellow paint

& crumbling;

so unlike the house

from which

they quietly climb

away …

Those stairs

that burn pale

with jaundiced light,

& curve dustily

clockwise,

upward,

out of sight…

Uncertain,

he climbs,

each step releasing

a sifting,

chalky powder,

each step releasing

memory…

Until…

On the landing,

peering beyond

the doorway’s open arch,

he views the room —

stark,

bare of ornament but

for one small, deep-set

window;

two twin beds thrust

hard against

the wall…

With grief,

a clutch of heart,

he remembers

all.

No place

for children,

for a child.

With flood & rush,

it returns &

he remembers.

O, he remembers

a l l.

 

 

— C.Birde, 3/20