Trees primeval upward soar,
exceed the vast sky’s vault
Thunderous in size
Forthright
Unbent
They filter thrumming veins
of green-gold, dusted light
Press palms to rough-furred
sorrel bark while standing
ankle-deep in moss & slow-
uncurling ferns & hear –
like a breath against the skull –
soft inquiry:
“Moon or Sword?
What will you place in
my heartwood?
Which will be your gift
of me?”
— C.Birde, 1/22
“I dream…
of deep green mosses,
ouroboros,
& bright motes
of light…”
At rest between
thresholds,
she sighed through
sleep’s keyhole.
“I dream
of
y o u.”
— C.Birde, 1/22
Distance reveals
the web’s complexity
of form –
those anchors of support,
the strands that spiral
in & down;
Grants the space to see
the pattern of the weave –
the warp & weft of whys,
wherefores that catch
upon proximity.
Grateful of perspective –
room to feel & breathe;
Anxiety of being held
forever fixed in place,
subtracted.
— C.Birde, 1/22
On smooth blacktop
before the barricade,
he waits –
I, beside him –
as the clerk
(severe in appearance
& attitude)
returns again…
Third trip to & from
the store,
he attempts, now,
to bend influence
toward the piece
he has selected
& presents.
No.
Enough of this.
We leave together.
For I possess not one,
but two North Stars –
the first resides
in my right ear;
the other rests
(unworn)
on green velvet,
in a small chest of wood.
“You, my love,” I say,
& guide him through
the empty lot,
away,
“will have the second.”
— C.Birde, 1/22
“Hush, now…”
She pulled the blanket
up beneath
her chin
with a whisper.
“I’m dreaming…”
— C.Birde, 1/22
Trees,
dark-stroked
against a sky obscured
& damply blotted,
lift expectant limbs…
Bare
Exposed
Stripped
to elemental truth.
I stand beneath…
In search of self
& soul
& all that’s sacred
amongst knotted roots
& last’s year’s fallen
leaves.
— C.Birde, 1/22
“I sing a new song
when the months
grow cold,”
her voice carried low
across the landscape’s
scrape & tumble,
“but tune your ear
& you will hear me
crooning
all the same…”
— C.Birde, 12/21
Plush dark…
Through this obscurity,
slowly, the forearm arcs
& scythes,
wrist rotating outward
in sinuous motion until
the palm cups skyward
(gibbous moon gesture)
& fingertips, at length,
draw into line the nest…
A compact bird’s nest,
expertly woven of twigs
& grass & random fibers,
its hollow delicately lined
& not-quite-wholly-filled…
At rest within its center,
a singular egg of pale blue
uncrack’d,
intact.
Two hollows,
full of expectation….
Empty hand & nest…
— C.Birde, 12/21
“Drift with me
through Autumn’s end,”
she sighed
& said.
“Are you not
as tired
as I?”
— C.Birde, 12/21
Catching light,
those flecked dark wings speak
of seasons & distance
& time’s ceaseless passing
The cycles repeat
R e p e a t i n g
Gather me
aloft in collective’s embrace
of wingbeats & banking turns
& maneuvers unspoken,
understood by the whole
In spite of all,
I stand pinned below
attentive
The cycle repeating
R e p e a t s
— C.Birde, 12/21