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
Hands clasped
& pressed
to breast-
bones,
we stood –
enraptured –
as Wood Thrush
dropped
each liquid note
down through
the trees’ canopy –
like hope,
like light –
then alit
upon the path
before us
& took
his unassuming
bow.
— C.Birde, 6/22
“All things exist…”
She held the wind
in her arms,
& song in her hair;
her stance gathered
forests, rivers,
mountains.
“…in a state of
simultaneous-
ness.”
— C.Birde, 5/22
Four snakes –
Slim black
ribbons
of tongue-
flicking,
flexible life
scrawled
across my path:
Four compass
points
of blessing
Four strokes
of wisdom
Four opportun-
ities to shed
my skin
& begin
again.
— C.Birde, 5/22
Sleep interrupted
by strobe of lights –
red & blue & white
stroked in rotation
of flashes against
the ceiling …
Rise & slip
across the floor,
part the drapes,
& kneel –
forehead to glass –
at the window…
Peer out & down,
absorb the scene
below…
Police & fire &
emergency trucks
cluster in the rain-
flooded street…
People mill & study
their handiwork…
The dogwood –
stretched prone –
lies on wet grass,
a graceless knot
of limbs pricked
in pink blooms…
Twenty-six years
of growth,
cut down…
All that remains,
a ragged stump
in broken light
& rain.
— C.Birde, 5/22
“Remember
when we walked
arm-in-arm
through
the blue-green
wood?
You said
you would
return…”
Leaves rustling,
flowers blooming,
she paused.
“I’m waiting…”
— C.Birde, 5/22