No matter
that I have no map,
no navigation system…
that the warp & weft
of intersecting highways
remains incomprehensible,
& the frantic push & pull
of traffic sweeps me along
with tidal force…
that strobes of light –
red & white & cautionary
yellow –
stream past in a confusion
of glancing blurs
reflecting off windshields,
steel-gray paneled bodies,
side- & rearview mirrors
dim with rain & half-light…
No matter.
I have foreseen
my arrival,
all the same.
Woodlawn,
I am coming.
— C.Birde, 8/22
Locusts
applaud
our efforts at the fringe
of pinetops & wind
set sharp against
the mountain’s
falling hip,
with thinned
& thinning blue sky
caught
about our crowns
& wildflowers
nodding,
sighing at our
earth-dusted feet –
“Yes,
oh, yes,
you’re truly
h e r e.”
— C.Birde, 8/22
With sidelong glance
& gesture,
she remarked:
“I
am my own
M u s e.”
— C.Birde, 7/22
We ascend the gradual slope
of polished stone set between
transparent knee walls
(fingers trailing
brushed aluminum rails)
& leave behind
the noise & commotion
of lights & shops & cafés,
the bustle of others’ motion
& intent.
Here,
we pause to peer beyond
the glass-walled enclosure
of dark earth,
excavated oh so long ago;
to peer at the ancient stone-
boned cathedral held within.
Ghostly spires rise through
dusted half-light;
buttresses span a space of time
unmeasured;
battered curtain walls defend
the sacred, hollow space within.
Alone.
Solitary.
No witnesses, but we –
he
&
me.
— C.Birde, 7/22
Wreathed
in pale,
lemon-scented Datura,
softly,
she spoke:
“May all your loyalties be
true,
worthy,
&
returned.”
— C.Birde, 7/22
I will wear black…
The soot black
of ravens,
of crows…
The buff black
of bears’ rigor…
The inky black
of the New Moon’s
star-pricked night
as I mourn.
And,
within the depth
of my dark garment,
I will collect intent
until my shadow –
feathered in light –
blooms
in colors all
its own.
— C.Birde, 7/22
She wrapped me
in Summer’s cloak,
pressed a star’s kiss
to my brow,
& said:
“Do not let
your grief
douse
your light.”
— C.Birde, 7/22
Wearing periwinkle
& faded denim,
hair hanging
(nearly)
to her waist in pale
drape of texture;
she stands outside
in soft-blooming
light,
clips glossy, new-
washed magazines
to the clothesline’s
drooping bow
where damp pages
dripdripdrip
themselves
to curling dryness
on the green
green grass
below.
— C.Birde, 6/22
“Come with me…”
she took my hand,
drew me through her
birdsong wake.
“We’ll sit together
at the Four Sisters’ knees
& listen
to their green-leafed
memories.”
— C.Birde, 6/22
The Other –
whose eye is so close to mine, I cannot see…
is it he, or she who studies me? –
remarks upon the color of the iris of my eye:
“Hazel
in dim light;
greener
in bright.”
My response:
“I know.”
Yet, despite our intimate proximity –
quite literally eye-to-eye –
I cannot see the color of the eye that peers
at me.
— C.Birde, 6/22