Summer arrived.

She yawned and

shook off the raindrops

— those bright beads that invited slumber —

she shook them from her skirts

and ventured

out.

 

— C.Birde, 6/19

 

 

 

 

Each

falling drop

of rain contains

the memory

of oceans,

of forests,

stars, and

bedrock.

Messages

of past and

future delivered

to this present,

to tongue and

skin and

hair.

Despair and

hope comingled

in potential.

Each

earthly soul –

one and all –

anointed in

the breath,

the blood,

the life

of another’s —

of all others’ —

presence.

No except-

ions.

 

— C.Birde, 6/19

 

 

 

Will we

find each other

again?

The mist surged

down the mountain

in cresting wave

to finger fern and

moss and

foxglove,

to curl over

stone.

Monochopsis –

the subtle and

persistent feeling

of being out of place

in the world.

Flock-incised,

the path looped back

and forth

through wildsome,

wildflowered turf;

through beauty;

into obscurity.

Into dream.

Will we find

each other

again?

 

— C.Birde, 6/19

 

 

 

 

I do

my best thinking

in Nature’s

company…

although the

thinking

— admittedly —

f

e

e

l

s

like

knowing.

.

.

.

— C.Birde, 5/19