Snail’s pace —
wonderfully
well suited
to
snail space.
≈
— C.Birde, 11/18
Pace — An Image
Exhale — A Poem
Each leaf,
a breath
captured,
collected,
Falling,
now fallen
in sweet
exhalation.
A volume of sighs —
oak & maple,
sassafras, linden,
& hickory —
strewn
at
our
feet.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Fixation — A Poem
The occlusion exists,
persists
resists clear sight.
We look, but do not see.
Focus trained myopically
on that bit,
that sliver,
that comfortable
shard of malleable truth.
Distortion…
Contortion…
Fleet glimpses of the whole
caught unexpectedly.
Insects trapped
in self-made amber —
dismissing whole forests
for the isolated
tree.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Rest — An Image
Gently
— so gently —
the leaves drift
& fall.
Let them rest…
Let them share
— in rustling, rasping voice —
their tale
of fickle light
& forfeit height
with the
ever-patient
earth.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Little Green Snakes — A Dream
Stop.
Just stop.
Don’t hand her another.
She’s too young, does not understand the harm she inflicts.
Each one – gripped in her dimpled, pudgy hands – wriggles, thrashes, droops,
is reduced to a limp length of still-brilliant spring green.
Laughing, she tosses them aside – lifeless; they land
belly up, curled on the flags beneath her high chair –
the first, the second, and the third.
Please – don’t hand her another.
She doesn’t understand.
Just stop.
Stop.
— C.Birde, 10/18
Wands — An Image
These small, sweet wands —
liberally scattered
amongst leaf-fall and weeds;
at curbside and
humble margins —
are sufficient
for
magic.
— C.Birde, 10/18
Oracle — A Poem
All of Summer’s
light —
in diminished height —
angles in Autumn’s
outstretched
arms.
Oracle Autumn.
Astrologer.
Fortune Teller.
Caster of leaves and
stones and runes
beneath the Hunter’s
moon.
Elder twin to budding,
carefree Spring.
Wise,
with haunted eyes
of Winter,
and bruised with
impending memory.
Lovely,
breathless,
quick-silver
Autumn.
— C.Birde, 10/18
Sweetgum — An Image
Shining Sweetgum
sagely scatters
scores
of
seedpods,
spiked & spherical.
— C.Birde, 10/18
Dorr Mountain — A Poem
Be strong. Be steady. Be alert. In body, mind, and spirit.
Embody the mountain. Dorr Mountain. Acadia.
Kurt Diederich’s Climb, elder among trails,
shaped with the Park’s founding –
a series of steps and stairs cut from the mountain itself,
connected by packed earth trails
that track those slopes and edges.
The strength of purpose,
the steadiness of planning
required to create such possibility;
the alertness necessary to climb those stairs…
when I want only to look at everything…
everything…
from each angle and every curve, ascending, descending…
trees, ferns, moss, and smooth blush-shouldered stones;
each creature that creeps, leaps, flits, soars;
the great, vast, all-embracing sea-blue sky;
when I want only to inhale everything…
everything…
the clean damp smell of earth and leaf and pine
through every sense and pore.
All surrounding – strength, steadiness, alertness;
this great protruding hip of enduring earth.
A fragment, I move through its peripheries,
through its unquestionable midst…
a flawed splinter of purpose.
And yet, and yet…
here, I am fearless…here I forget…
that the world always (always) seems
bigger, stronger, louder, crueler…
here, I forget the shouts and anger that strips away
convictions, small and large, until I doubt…
Here, I am fearless; here, I don’t hide…
My face mirrors light.
Be strong. Be steady. Be alert. In body, mind, and spirit.
Hold on to that mountain.
— C.Birde, 10/10
Toads — A Dream
Caught within the tangle of scratching, leafless forsythias at the road’s edge — that pale, packed strip of gravel, bending, bow-like and away left and right. Beyond the road’s farther edge, where the intrusion of gravel gives way to tumbled brown earth; beyond the earth’s gradual slope and the slim, young trees arranged haphazardly over that gentle declination — a ribbon of glittering blue, a deep lake of still water, its surface stirred by breeze. They have already crossed, slipped through the trees, their hands tracing those slender trunks as they passed, headed for the water, out of sight.
Watching, caught within the forsythias’ whip-wand embrace. Bending forward, doubled over at the waist. Shaking head and hair — gently. The toads tumble earthward, dozens of small dull brown toads shaken gratefully free of entangling hair. Watching them hop and scatter in all directions.
Laughing.
Laughing.
— C. Birde, 10/18