Humble path,
strewn with disks of light
that shift illumination
underfoot,
while overhead
a wind tangles in
trees’ limbs outstretched
with leaves gilt-edged in sun.
No hearts of stone here.
No clenched fists.
Human constructs,
stripped away —
those cramped and
too-small boxes,
all those restrictive,
reductive
labels.
Here,
there is just
wind and song;
life,
and green-gold
light.
— C.Birde, 6/16
This honeysuckled air…
sweet enough to sip,
to draw that ethereal fragrance
— like a warmth —
over the tongue.
— C.Birde, 6/16
The air vibrates,
crackles with alarm,
with a dozen voices lifted.
The sky churns,
a-roil with frantic motion,
with wings that beat —
blue, red, brown, gray —
and claws that flex;
with beaks
that jab and split and scream.
The storm
of this haphazard flock,
focused on a soot-winged marauder.
Adorned in ebony,
he cowers beneath their blows,
beneath the arc and unrelenting descent
of their contempt.
Then, with a sullen croak of “uncle”,
he lifts from the roof’s peak,
spreads shadow wings
and flees.
All is still.
Peace returns.
The makeshift flock disperses.
Later,
tucked within the hedge,
spot-breasted and unfledged,
plucked or dropped or wrested
from the nest,
we find young Robin —
unwitting participant,
and silent witness
to all.
— C.Birde, 6/16
The Moon wanes,
and the sprites have hung their dancing slippers
from the arch of Solomon’s Seal,
their moon-washed gowns and jackets
from the Bleeding Heart.
— C.Birde, 5/16
To look at ferns…is to look back through time.
— C.Birde, 5/16
I went to the woods
to read aloud
the lichen on the stones
and
the braille-bark trees;
to translate the wildflowers’
bright phrases
and
avian patterns purled
upon the air;
and
I heard,
marked by the arcs
of Sun and Moon and Stars,
Time’s Tale —
coveted, measured,
sought, and spent.
Go. Now.
Don’t wait.
Translate
the curled and tangled rootworks,
the twist of grasses,
and branches’ interweave.
Cup your ear to the Earth’s
loamy breast
and feel its steady beat
thrum through soil and stone.
Press your lips to the sky’s
expanse of wide open blue.
Reacquaint yourself.
Restore yourself.
Heal yourself.
Now.
Go.
— C.Birde, 5/16
Bleeding hearts in the garden —
pin one to my sleeve.
— C.Birde, 5/16
To stand a moment
where light and shadow fall
like Autumn leaves in Spring
and, in so pausing,
hear
the flutter of
those caught-in-amber notes,
strung like beads of sunlight
upon sweet, scentless air,
is to better understand
the exchange
of Odysseus and the Sirens —
my need to listen,
captivated,
and Thrush’s need
to sing.
— C.Birde, 5/16
There, in the corner garden —
step beyond the fringe of ferns and
part the bleeding hearts —
stands Trillium,
her frock translucent
with rain.
— C.Birde, 5/16
Again,
through Time’s curious weave,
I see
the tree sees me.
And we might agree,
could we align the speeds
at which,
individually,
we live and breathe —
stretch my own,
perhaps,
accelerate the tree’s —
when next we meet,
we might take our ease
and speak.
Heart to heart,
soul to soul,
hand to leaf.
— C.Birde, 5/16