Walk with me

beneath the bud-tipped spruce –

we’ll lift our hands to collect

the crows’ bewildered calls,

still hoarse

with the memory of

recent snow.

We’ll bend to sip sweet rain

from crocuses and watch

the ferns’ fronds slow unfurling.

Inhale, with me, the lilacs’ promise.

While Mourning Cloaks –

clad in lush dark velvet –

flit and glide about us,

we’ll decipher their

orphic patterns.

For a moment,

we’ll remember;

for a moment,

we’ll forget.

 

— C.Birde, 4/17

 

 

Stop,

listen –

don’t insist she

shout for your

attention.

You are one.

Her vast rivers flow

through your constricted veins;

Her mountains comprise

your bones,

grown porous;

Her forests guide

your too-shallow breath;

Those wild and untamed places

that reside in your

diminished

heart,

are hers.

Don’t make her shout —

when her mouth is full

of flowers

and her breath

perfumed,

when her touch is

a caress

of budding green.

Bend your ear to hear

her song issue

from the messenger

throats of birds.

Place your feet in her steps,

against her heart’s

steadying beat.

Cherish and protect her.

Remember yourself.

Revive and awaken.

Do not insist

she shout.

 

— C.Birde, 4/17