Take them,

these static representations

of antique women,

clothed in robes

of polished marble,

their faces benign &

caught forever

between expressions.

Take them

from this darkened,

cloistered room

with its museum air,

sterile and scentless;

from these venerated

pedestals arranged

in self-reflective semi-circle,

carved over with thorned and

vining roses.

Take them

out into the beating

heart of the deeply

wooded night

where they might stir

anew with memory of the life

that once swept through them –

body

blood &

bone –

a tidal force of soul

that inspired

poets

artists

naturalists

philosophers

to capture, trap & tame them –

honorably,

in respectful aspect –

for all perpetuity.

Take them

out into the holy wash

of ferns and moonlight

intending fully to return them —

unmissed and

undisturbed —

to their safe sanctum;

but one plinth,

one single solitary

gilded cage –

edges dusted well

with age –

will remain forever

empty of its prize,

at long last freed

to breathe &

laugh &

run. Un-

leashed.

Re-

leased.

Re-

born.

 

— C.Birde, 7/19