Always,
always —
those moments,
unexpected,
of flashing perplexity;
the passing
passive,
reflective glimpse
of eyes &
lips &
nose;
of skin stroked
over forehead,
cheeks &
brow.
The mirrored
bewilderment:
That is me?
Is that me?
Elapsing years
crease &
crinkle,
scar &
wrinkle.
Daily greetings,
benign
astonishments.
The uncertainty,
the mystery
of self remains.
Always,
always
changing;
always,
always
un-
changed.
— C.Birde, 11/19
“Will you stay?”
Her wheaten
buff-gold
lemon-drop gaze
compells
without judgment.
“So that I
might
s
t
a
y
?”
— C.Birde, 11/19
How
to clasp joy
in this world
of aching
loss?
Of bees and birds
of breath
of birds and bees
of life
Exchange
your salt shaker for
wildflower seeds
Cast aside
your blind and grudging
stones
Create
a sacred space
for the fierce impossibility of
feather
flesh and
bone
Feed two birds
with clear eyes and
hopeful heart,
with one open,
widespread
palm.
— C.Birde, 11/19
She had had
the impression,
she realized —
with the chill wind
against her
cheek
&
the leaves’
trembling refusal
to let go —
that it all
should last
l
o
n
g
e
r.
— C.Birde, 11/19
“Fall with me,”
she said.
“We’ll drift
— lightly, carelessly —
& lay
the foundations
of
earthbound
beauty.”
— C.Birde, 11/19
Each moment
each hour
each day,
a new layer –
like leaves
in autumn,
snow
in winter;
a collection
of transparent
memories
grown
owned
imposed
stitched into
rootless
kaleidoscopic
clothes and
draped –
oh so gently –
over our
remembering,
forgetting
bones.
— C.Birde, 10/19
Little by little,
she let go
the past
&
freed herself
to the
light.
— C.Birde,10/19
Autumn light –
tea-stained
honeyed
steeped
in maple,
ash and
hickory
burnished
gold and
poured through
branch and
leaf and
limb into
our hollowed
hallowed
hands.
Drink
up.
— C.Birde, 10/19
“Where
has anger led?”
Her query
was demand.
“That shimmering
red-veil firestorm
kindled and fed
the flux and
transmission
of broken light,
the fiery collision
of past
present
future,
devouring and
insatiable.”
Flushed,
she paused
for breath.
“I will wear grief
instead,”
she began again,
“Those blunt
bruised shades
of blue-gray
melancholy…
I will wear grief,”
she affirmed.
In the mirror,
our eyes met.
“until our
collective heart
is restored
and polished,
and its calloused
ache – at last –
is shed.”
— C.Birde, 8/30/19
Crisp
cool air;
retreating light;
the earth’s slow
burnishing…
She made up
her bed
— carefully —
&
prepared
to
sleep.
— C.Birde, 10/19