She floats —
golden-eyed,
in a blush of pink —
through the contracting
dream
of Summer.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Anemone — An Image
Schrodinger’s Cat-erpillar
Mystery,
wrought of
hardened protein
and spun silk,
it exists
in two states,
twice –
alive and dead;
caterpillar and
butterfly.
Each
a truth entire.
Until
the chrysalis splits
and butterfly
emerges.
Or does not.
Spun silk heart,
not yet hardened,
snug between ribs,
beating in
two states –
Hope and
Dismay.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Departure — Images
Decked
in white fringe,
gold tassels,
diagonals
of light,
late summer stirs
and
lingers,
reluctant to
depart.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Finale — A Poem
Born
on the heels of
thunder,
when,
the evening prior,
the night sky
bloomed
with asters and
fiery
chrysanthemums.
A blaze of moments.
The season fades.
The psychic end
of summer.
— C.Birde, 9/6/17
Rebirth — An Image
Sealed off
in a doorless
chamber,
she dreams
and labors
and makes
of herself
a new
self.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Ruby-throat — A Poem
The space,
so recently occupied,
still vibrates —
a scrap of atmosphere
stirred to warmth
by wings and pulse
beating too swift
to measure.
Stare —
cheek flush to heated air
where she speedily
unstitched the seams
of passing breeze
and slipped away,
like summer.
— C.Birde, 8/30/17
Eclipsed — A Poem
Sly wink and glide,
she eludes
his fiery grasp,
and scatters
her Cheshire grin
in countless
bright crescents
to mark her passage.
No portents here.
Rather,
a coy,
lunar sway
as,
smoothly,
she slips before
his wide,
unblinking
eye.
— C.Birde, 8/17
Elevation — A Poem
Constellation of feathers,
they stud the burning bush,
the hedge and wires,
and with the least
provocation,
lift
in a cloud of wings,
scissoring up and away.
Small messengers.
Each a hope too large
to bear alone.
Each a small
elevation
of heart.
— C.Birde, 8/17
Phase — An Image
He creeps amongst
the fennel stems,
content to nibble
fragrant, feathered
leaves.
He never dreams
of flight.
— C.Birde, 8/11/17
Blueberry Moon — A Poem
Crickets sing
a tidal song —
legion notes united,
lapping one
against another.
Too close,
too rapid to measure
the hairsbreadth space
between,
to take the night’s
aural temperature.
But it is cool for August.
Pull the blankets up.
Listen –
The crickets’ evensong
washes
against thin-paned glass,
and bears
the swollen Moon
through
Her arching
transit.
— C.Birde, 8/17