His hands,
so young and full
of potential —
open as his heart —
repaired the gap
and gently scooped
the hatchling up,
slipped it,
with a silver spoon,
back into
the nest.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Hatchlings — An Image
Green Tonic — A Poem
The crush and shout
of the larger world
persists
beyond these fringed,
green borders
where, time and again,
I return
to drink
the Wood Thrush’s tonic
of sung sunlight,
to feel
the fern’s frill-lipped
cool breath against
my calves,
to absorb the drum and patter
of rain upon
the woods’ sheltering
green canopy.
I come to cleanse myself –
of grief and pain and worry;
to drench myself
in green.
— C. Birde, 6/28/17
Green Summons — An Image
At their feet
lay a low, flowering carpet —
a green invitation.
Patiently,
they await
our
decision.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Seasonal Truths — A Poem
She flits
among the underbrush,
shadow clad in shadow.
He sings
in liquid, honeysuckled
light and borrowed notes,
songs un-repetitive,
unrepeatable.
A stroke of shadow,
she huddles
atop a nest of sticks and
grass and ribbons built,
like his song,
in careful,
r a n d o m
fashion.
Chasing
blue jay,
grackle,
awkward young starling,
he repels
any who come too near.
My name,
tucked beneath
their wings,
in their
throats and call —
I answer.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Small Storms — A Poem
It is not the rain,
nor the drawn, pewtered sky,
but the unexpected rupture,
the rent calm and
aftermath of grief
that pulls,
tugs,
drags like teeth
through shorn grass.
The price of a heart
unbound.
Bear it.
Embrace it.
Sit with it —
an old friend come
to pay respects —
till inching hours blunt
the tooth-and-claw edges.
Ride it out,
like the small,
insistent,
significant storm
that it is.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Pocket Sanctuary — An Image
Duck the twining honeysuckle,
dripping with recent rain,
enter through the open gate
on two legs, four, or six,
on wings;
Let hearts be softened,
fears soothed,
hurts healed;
Leave all anger
and hardness behind
this pocket sanctuary,
to be swept away,
un-needed,
forgotten.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Embrace — An Image
Torsos press,
limbs entwine
and wrap,
crowns lean together,
whispering,
and
roots tangle —
in full
embrace.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Moon Washed — A Dream
So many steps. Never-ending. A sloping descent through an enclosed, featureless stairwell of smooth plaster walls, and smooth risers barely scuffed with use. Deeply-layered shadows are peeled away by a soft light of unknown origin.
I’ve lost count of the steps, how many I’ve taken; but this neither frustrates nor alarms. It’s an easy descent – my legs do not ache, my heart and lungs do not protest. One step after another, I follow the stairs further. Deeper. Ever downward. My footfalls echo and pulse.
At length, a faint glow of light blooms below, gilds the stair treads. At the base of the stairs is an open doorway. Beyond this, lies a large lake which seems to fall off and over the night sky’s horizon. Above the lake, casting its reflection over the water’s still surface, floats the moon – so full, so enormous, it consumes all that is visible from the doorway’s threshold.
Unable to proceed forward, I stand and marvel at the moon – it swims easily through both air and water, while both elements impede my own progress. The sky is far outside my earthbound reach, and the lake, though it reflects the moon so beautifully, seems to swirl beneath the surface with motes and particles of murky origin.
And then, I am thrust forward and out, propelled into the water. Someone has pushed me – I felt his hand pressed against the small of my back, the thrust of momentum. Arms out-flung, fingers grasping at the night air, toes searching for any foothold, I pitch forward. The moon’s fluid reflection ripples and breaks beneath my fall.
The lake receives me.
Kicking toward the surface, I emerge, sluicing water. The water is lovely – clear, comfortable, the perfect temperature. Sweet on my tongue. Buoyant. Supportive. There is nothing murky here. All is clear.
Through moonlight and water, I am bathed anew.
Teacups & Thimbles — A Poem
Dimpled,
silver thimbles,
nor expanding
seas
can contain our
unfolding griefs,
So let us sit —
eyes dampening,
knee to knee —
over cups of rosy tea
and drink
to all that is good and
precious and
beautiful
in the lives we
weave together,
separately.
— C.Birde, 4/17
Sunrise — An Image
Dawn arrives,
despite the wounds,
the worry.
An invitation
to renew hope,
to begin
again.
— C.Birde, 2/17