Crickets’ hypnotic trill & hum
Crisp-fizzling leaves & grasses
Hymn of gilt-edged, waning light
Cool air folds up the landscape
Sundials of hearts’ chambers slip
Summer’s flame-crown sputters
Grinning,
dancing,
Autumn comes to burnish
a new measure…
— C.Birde, 9/20
When
earth trembles &
that mantle of unmown grass –
lush &
green &
threaded through
with a purple fringe of wild asters –
separates from the soil of its making
to heave itself up up upright
on hindquarters of loam;
When
that vaguely humanoid shape,
soft-rubbed of keen features,
lurches with thick arms raised & sifting soil
to grope with blind,
blunted,
outstretched hands
like some unfathomably old
newly born golem of earth;
and When,
in umber-and-green-and-purple tide,
the shaken sward returns abruptly
to the soft mud of its recent birth
as if it never was…
Will its voiceless,
mossy,
desperate
roar have penetrated?
or will that thrashing cry have been dismissed
as dream?
— C.Birde, 9/20
“Oh,
dear one,”
she soothed &
sighed &
rustled,
“do not conceal
your tears…
They connect you
to all the world’s
sorrows &
joys…”
— C.Birde, 9/20
No longer
can I write here,
beneath the shaded
pergola,
blooming with the hum
of bees and the scent
of Virgin’s Bower
as that flowering vine
casts off its petals
like late summer
snow.
No.
You misunderstand.
It is, now, no less
lovely, no less
pleasant;
but the task of fitting
thoughts to words
and words together
has been usurped.
Wait…
Again,
and yet again –
interruption.
The bowl of peanuts
swiftly empties.
Restraint.
Patience.
Calm.
Fine words, indeed;
but ill-fitted to
a chipmunk’s mouth
and never ceasing
needs.
— C.Birde, 9/20
“Show tenderness
toward the small,”
she advised
with sly sideways glance.
“For, ultimately,
you, too, are
small.”
— C.Birde, 9/20
In the breath of time
she had graced
this precious Earth,
she had witnessed
the unimaginable…
— C.Birde, 8/20
“Admire my lines,
my wanton form & tumble;
inhale my scent, hypnotic…
But be forewarned,” she said
“Press your teeth
not to my throat;
neither pluck nor bruise me;
else risk both thorn
& poison.”
— C.Birde, 8/20
The storm has passed.
Generators’ collective hum
competes with insect song.
Electric stove serves
rainbows.
— C.Birde, 8/20
“Together,” she sang,
“Always together.
Regardless of where we stand.
We walk together.
Hearts. Thoughts.
Hands forever at work.
Each act and choice and step
a kiss, a bruise pressed
to this precious skin of land.”
— C.Birde, 7/20
“I am the rain,”
her voice pattered
amongst the leaves,
“slaking & soaking,
praised & cursed.
I am a multitude –
of oceans,
of voices;
raising & eroding.”
She touched my face.
“I accept,”
she hushed,
“your tears.”
— C.Birde, 7/20