Weave me
a cloak of ivy &
a crown of feathered light,
& we’ll walk together
beyond this glade
into the tree-hugged
night.
— C.Birde, 2/25
White Oak — An Image
Snow — A Poem
Enough for a fresh start,
to restore the whole,
to fill in the marks made
yesterday,
& to start over —
again.
–C.Birde
Small… — A Poem
Small
in a vast world,
& aware of her diminutive size
No bravado here
Alert & wary
Yet ready to trust
when approached with
patience & kindness.
We’ve all been her.
— C.Birde, 5/24
Wolfshead — An Image
Wolf’s head
hung above the door
in welcome or warning?
I could not know before
putting hand to latch
& slowly moving forward.
— C.Birde, 5/25
October Moon — A Poem
That night,
the Moon’s pale & brilliant eye
shone wide across the water
And you three & you & I walked
through the end of an October
warmer than memory allowed
While the fallen, whispering leaves
of oak & sycamore followed us
on brisk & skittering feet.
— C.Birde, 11/23
Falls — A Poem
Falls,
fallen,
falling down
d
o
w
n
into the depths
of self.
— C.Birde, 4/23
Caged — A Dream
Uninvited,
unexpected, they arrive…
Four men – stocky & absurd,
frowning in black overcoats
& bowler hats.
Crowding into the bathroom.
Bearing, between them,
a large birdcage –
ornate wire, curled & domed.
On one perch,
a red-gold parrot;
on its twin,
a second parrot’s skeleton;
& on the cage’s floor,
a lovebird contained,
restrained,
in a cube of wire mesh.
“We done did the best we could.”
Muttering,
shuffling, the men depart as,
tumbling from its perch,
the parrot falls,
flashing red-over-gold…
The lovebird remains…
Love,
trapped —
caged within
a cage.
— C.Birde, 12/22
Glove — A Dream
I wore,
on my right hand,
a glove of cicadas –
glittering,
shimmering,
whirring in patterns
improbable…
A glove of dialogue,
& movement,
& transformation
undeniable…
And when I tried
to release my hand,
my fingers,
of those shrill insects,
they clicked
& chittered
& shifted
& sang;
with buzzing intent,
they bit
& stung;
endured as one;
would not be
shaken off or free,
denied or dislodged,
but rather would
r e m a i n.
— C.Birde, 8/22
Traffic — A Dream
No matter
that I have no map,
no navigation system…
that the warp & weft
of intersecting highways
remains incomprehensible,
& the frantic push & pull
of traffic sweeps me along
with tidal force…
that strobes of light –
red & white & cautionary
yellow –
stream past in a confusion
of glancing blurs
reflecting off windshields,
steel-gray paneled bodies,
side- & rearview mirrors
dim with rain & half-light…
No matter.
I have foreseen
my arrival,
all the same.
Woodlawn,
I am coming.
— C.Birde, 8/22
Muse — An Image
With sidelong glance
& gesture,
she remarked:
“I
am my own
M u s e.”
— C.Birde, 7/22