My invitation arrived
in the wood
at dawn.
— C.Birde, 9/16
Dawn Wood — An Image
Four Paws — A Poem
Four paws pause
on the mountain’s graveled flank —
she gathers news
from weed and shrub,
root and stone;
pulls me along.
No matter that I am
near senseless to all
she perceives –
I am content
to wait and contemplate
the weave of breeze
among branch and leaf
pressed to the breast
of gray-clad sky;
to gather for safe-keeping
the coruscating mantras
of crickets, birds and tree frogs
as wards against
future silence.
I am content
to admire those
steely wildflowers
that scatter fairy light
over the forest’s
parched floor
for as long
as I am permitted…
Until, urgently,
I am pulled
to move again —
rapidly and ever onward —
toward the next
newsworthy
site.
–C.Birde, 9/16
Helianthus — Images
Helianthus nods and smiles
beyond the window,
curious why I sit indoors
when I could be outside,
adorned in goldfinches
and bees.
— C. Birde, 9/16
The Linden — A Poem
Stay…
Linger beneath the linden —
that tree of bees
and heart-shaped leaves.
We’ll spread a blanket
in restless shade
over the drowsing heads
of sweet clover,
and name the birds’
erratic patterns
scrawled across the sky.
Together, we’ll drift
as Summer slips
us by.
— C.Birde, 8/16
Toadthrone — An Image
In a neighboring realm
stands a Toadthrone so grand,
the green grass is left to weave unshorn about it.
(And some secretly anticipate the royal personage
who must
hold court
there.)
— C.Birde, 8/16
Periphery — A Poem
Son, sun, and Summer
ease their way toward
absence —
I am well attuned
to the cycle.
And experience
has shown
it appears
far easier to leave
than it feels
to be
left.
— C.Birde, 8/16
Sunset Reservoir — An Image
Last evening’s sunset,
caught in sky and water.
Breathe,
and release.
— C.Birde, 8/16
White Oak, A Profile — Images
Allow me to introduce the Addis White Oak. This giantess, Quercus Alba, rears up from Greenwood Cemetery higher than I can guess. She would easily offer generous shade to a four-story home; it’s common for white oaks to reach heights between 80 and 100 feet.
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Her extended limbs stretch outward at great, wide angles in all directions, easily as far as she is tall, and her lower branches run almost parallel to the earth. She wears gently round-tipped leaves, most of which are about eight inches in length, longer than my hand.
Her bark is far from white, but rather varying shades of gray. It is so scaled and deeply grooved, I can slip my fingers into fissured clefts. In some areas, her bark rises several inches from her in trunk in long sheaths.
Her roots are well anchored in the earth; her toes and ankles are felted with moss and lichen. She is just one of several enormous trees in this quiet little cemetery, and she is not the largest. I call her the Addis Oak for the family buried at her feet. Standing beneath her, I hear the creak and rustle of Time passing.
In an effort to estimate this tree’s age, I followed a simple formula — measure the trunk’s width at about four-and-a-half feet from the ground (137 inches); divide this number by pi (137 inches ÷ 3.141 = 43.61); multiply this number by the tree’s growth rate (white oak growth rate is 5, therefore 43.61 x 5 = 218.08), which makes this tree, by rough estimate, over two hundred years old. White oaks can reach ages between 200 and 300 years. Truly impressive. This is by no means the oldest white oak — the Wye Oak in Maryland was estimated to be over 450 years old before it fell in a thunderstorm in 2002. Another venerable white oak, the Great White Oak in Basking Ridge, New Jersey — ailing, though still standing — is thought to be over 600 years.
Black-Eyed Susan — An Image
I pause at the garden gate
to exchange brown-eyed glances
with Black-Eyed Susans.
— C.Birde, 8/16
Shades of Green — A Poem
Color of marbles and Luna moths and sea glass,
of raw youth’s inexperience
and cold hard cash.
Color of movements and parties;
the chlorophylled light
of leaf-fringed canopies.
Color of magic and malachite,
myth and tea,
of life and growth and jealousy.
The signature hue of a singular Fairy.
Color of dryads and druids and
emerald isles;
the color caught in Lena’s eyes.
Color of farmers’ markets,
Summer’s ache,
and tomatoes’ leathery leaves,
the too-sharp scent of just-pulled weeds.
Color of woodlands and meadows and mantises.
Moss- and fern-touched,
the shades of green.
— C.Birde, 7/16
