Bright-eyed
asters,
starry-eyed
asters –
perennial footlights
to Autumn’s
drama.
— C.Birde, 10/19
Footlights — An Image
Attend — A Poem
Sweet-toasted
leaf-fall.
Crackle and
crunch.
Seduction
of trees’ collective
undress.
Observe
and pivot
beneath songbirds’
departure
over
under
through
Mark
the warp and weft
of praiseful wind
and heed
the crickets’ last call
and response.
Reign
of Autumn
scattered
shelled
hoarded
Attend.
Attend.
— C.Birde, 10/19
Wildflowers — Images
Autumn
wildflowers,
adrift
in green frills,
bid
the sweetest,
the fondest
of all
farewells.
— C.Birde, 10/19
Seams & Crescents — A Poem
A revelation –
this small
raised
lattice
inch that sways,
like miniscule
rope bridge,
from the eye’s
outermost corner,
following the cheek’s
down-curved sweep,
where,
a week ago,
the hole was cut
then gathered up
and closed in
tight
precise
stitches.
To bear even
the slimmest crescent
of waning moon
within the constellation
of one’s living
skin…
A revelation.
— C.Birde, 10/19
Hol(e)y — An Image
And,
in the end,
are we all
not flawed,
careworn,
&
sacred?
— C.Birde, 9/19
Wait — A Poem
Count
the pinholes in
the ceiling
tiles.
Breathe
the static anti-
septic
air.
Patient
or impatient,
the wait remains,
unknowing
contracts and
expands,
while outside
the world turns,
scratches,
taps
at the door.
Every moment
waits upon
another,
eager
to get
in.
— C.Birde, 9/19
Turned Away — A Dream
They turned away –
she, to the left; he, the right –
and with their eyes averted,
left the boy to face his fate.
Alone.
Abandoned.
Small and pale and fragile,
he unfolded from sleepless sleep,
lifted from a woven basket
by the fireplace.
Full well he knew the sacrifice
owed and expected,
crossed the room to stand
on braided oval carpet.
Accepted.
He accepted.
Alone.
Alone, he faced it.
And at once it rose,
towered,
bent –
grim and featureless –
to greet the boy,
that strange opaque and slippery
column of vaporous gray,
insubstantial as the shadow
it did not, could not cast.
Atop its head of smoke,
a three-pointed crown,
and in a voice of fog and
dust and ashes,
spoke:
“This might as sweet
as honey been,
had first we not
each spake
with kings.”
Gray fog condensed and
looped and gathered and
in rising
rushing
hissing
torrent leapt into the boy,
bent back the slender neck,
stretched wide his mouth
to choking,
gasping,
until
— at last, at length —
only the boy remained.
Rigid, now.
Compacted.
Pressed full of vapor.
Crown and shadow
consumed and swallowed.
Alone.
He stood alone.
And they –
she and he,
themselves protecting –
did nothing,
nothing,
but turn.
They turned
away.
— C.Birde, 9/19
Onward — An Image
Around
over
under
through…
But ever,
always
onward.
— C.Birde, 9/19
Confession — An Image
She confessed
her love
to the wide open
sky,
&
the sky
— humbled —
blushed.
— C.Birde, 9/19
Three Seconds — A Poem
Soft blue August, sundered.
Thunder in collision and impact.
Red strikes black strikes white.
Picket gate disintegrates,
yields to entry.
Wood & plastic, metal & glass –
into arc & orbit, cast.
Hundred-year hedge’s roots
from earthen beds wrested.
Eupatorium, liatris, bronze fennel,
tender pink anemone
bend and break and bow
to churning wheels’ authority.
Incongruous scent of mint.
Propelled within the yards’
green grass,
the battered black pick-up
rests, at last –
unexpected ornament;
astounding, idling.
Three seconds.
Split. Smashed. Bisected. Dashed.
The space between breaths,
from start to finish.
Ends and beginnings and ends,
meeting.
OneTwoThree
— C.Birde, 8/19