“In silence,
in solitude,“
— her voice thrummed,
everywhere &
nowhere —
“there
are
a n s w e r s.”
— C.Birde, 3/20
Solitude — An Image
Psychic Weight — A Poem
The wait…
The weight
of uncertainty
slides,
lingers
unseen.
Above,
the sky
breaks blue
like song,
& promise,
& spring.
Search
the clouds
for signs
& silver
linings.
Hesitate.
Uncertain.
Biding time.
Weighing.
Waiting.
— C.Birde, 3/20
Yellow Stairs — A Dream
Wait…
He pauses,
hesitates…
Were they always
there?
That set of stairs –
flaking yellow paint
& crumbling;
so unlike the house
from which
they quietly climb
away …
Those stairs
that burn pale
with jaundiced light,
& curve dustily
clockwise,
upward,
out of sight…
Uncertain,
he climbs,
each step releasing
a sifting,
chalky powder,
each step releasing
memory…
Until…
On the landing,
peering beyond
the doorway’s open arch,
he views the room —
stark,
bare of ornament but
for one small, deep-set
window;
two twin beds thrust
hard against
the wall…
With grief,
a clutch of heart,
he remembers
all.
No place
for children,
for a child.
With flood & rush,
it returns &
he remembers.
O, he remembers
a l l.
— C.Birde, 3/20
Centered — An Image
While the world
spun &
roared &
thundered…
She cradled
her heart
— like a nestling —
crooning
sweetly.
— C.Birde, 3/20
Choir — A Poem
From
the crown of trees
they call,
their voices
fall
like rain,
dark gems agleam,
aglitter;
rough-cut shards
against
up-tilted ear.
Rasp-
throated, darkling
harbingers
joined
in coarse prelude
to spring.
— C.Birde, 3/20
The Second Story — A Dream
Was it you?
Really you I saw
that day,
that night,
while I stood with the wind
in the rail lines’ slope
of scree and
scrubby weeds?
So many miles folded
between us,
yet so clearly
I saw you through
the window’s smooth panes
of glass two stories up
in that time-peeled,
wood-frame farmhouse…
You bent
to lift the kettle,
your back curved
like a scythe,
like the sickle moon,
and I said
(my promise traversed
the separating space
though I never raised
my voice)
I said that I would help
at a word,
a gesture –
drop the kettle;
thump the floorboards
with the broom’s handle,
with your heel…
I would help.
The words left my lips,
and I wondered how,
in this mortal world,
a ghost might manipulate
matter to be heard?
Our lines diverged.
Slow-strobing signal’s
flash.
Cinders’ sigh of
warning…
We were
to meet
for tea…
— C.Birde, 3/20
Soon — An Image
“You will know me –“
hers was a murmur
to warm
winter’s bones —
“by the garment
I wear —
of snowdrops &
crocus;
by the buds
in my
hair.”
— C.Birde, 3/20
The Hereafter — A Poem
Hereafter,
no acceptance,
no denial.
All,
all a matter
of timing,
of Time.
Trees
link their limbs
in arboreal
prayer.
Birds
frame heaven
in wings, extended.
Walk with me,
our fingers twined,
while questions –
unanswered,
unanswerable –
stir
like phoenixes,
like last Autumn’s
leaves –
rising,
whispering –
within the path
as yet forming
before
us.
— C.Birde, 3/20
Beak-on — A Dream
There…
Overhead…
A hiccup
of movement
within the vine’s
complex embroidery…
A small bird’s
flick and flitter;
the start and stop
of song,
rising,
falling
in swift,
mercurial tones…
Shape and sound.
Darkness caught
within darkness.
Until –
alighting
on pendent,
leaf-pricked coil –
with open beak,
it sings and —
in rippling song —
emits a
shining beacon
of light
that would challenge
day,
that illuminates
night.
— C.Birde, 2/20
Passing — An Image
“Wait…”
Years compressed
into months,
shrank
to days.
“Would you
deny
my departure?”
her words chafed
with fatigue.
“No.
But I wish
it were not
so
soon.”
— C.Birde, 2/20