His hands,
so young and full
of potential —
open as his heart —
repaired the gap
and gently scooped
the hatchling up,
slipped it,
with a silver spoon,
back into
the nest.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Hatchlings — An Image
Drench — An Image
The rain fell
with the impatience
of countless
drumming
fingers.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Equivalencies — A Poem
If you have one chipmunk,
you have three;
If you have three chipmunks,
you have fifteen;
If you have fifteen,
they will call the day’s news,
in rapid fire staccato,
from the garden bench;
and beneath the old miniature rose;
and from the corner behind the garage
by the rain barrels.
Most likely,
they will excavate
a complex system of tunnels
beneath the side steps
to the converted back porch,
and divert
the flow of fallen rain that
— recently, mysteriously —
began weeping through
the house’s north facing
hundred-plus-year-old
basement wall.
They will expect peanuts,
and will make their requests
from under the lavender hedge;
and beneath the curled, green ferns;
and from all corners
of the house and yard and garden.
Keep a number of nuts tucked
in your pockets at all times,
though this will not prevent them
from heedlessly running
over your bare feet and toes
when you open the door
and stand on the side steps
with that offering.
If you see one chipmunk,
you may see three;
If you see three chipmunks,
you may well see fifteen;
And if you see fifteen,
you had best have your
inter-species agreements
quickly drawn up and notarized,
for the benefit of all,
by a neutral third party.
(The Nuthatch, perhaps.)
— C.Birde, 7/17
Sassafras — An Image
With our backs pressed
to the smooth, silver trunk
of the Beech,
We’ll sip sassafras tea
and decipher the patterns
of steam
scrawled
upon the fragrant
morning air.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Green Tonic — A Poem
The crush and shout
of the larger world
persists
beyond these fringed,
green borders
where, time and again,
I return
to drink
the Wood Thrush’s tonic
of sung sunlight,
to feel
the fern’s frill-lipped
cool breath against
my calves,
to absorb the drum and patter
of rain upon
the woods’ sheltering
green canopy.
I come to cleanse myself –
of grief and pain and worry;
to drench myself
in green.
— C. Birde, 6/28/17
Reflect — An Image
Like rain falling,
f
a
l
l
e
n,
Memories collect
to dimple
the surface.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Sun Day — A Poem
Seconds,
Minutes,
Hours –
The slow and certain accumulation
of six-months’ time
tilts the scales
in daylight’s favor.
Solstice of Summer.
Exultant and unaware,
we blissfully tread
the insubstantial
garment of our shadows,
as the Hours
Minutes,
Seconds
steadily
reverse
their
course.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Green Summons — An Image
At their feet
lay a low, flowering carpet —
a green invitation.
Patiently,
they await
our
decision.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Seasonal Truths — A Poem
She flits
among the underbrush,
shadow clad in shadow.
He sings
in liquid, honeysuckled
light and borrowed notes,
songs un-repetitive,
unrepeatable.
A stroke of shadow,
she huddles
atop a nest of sticks and
grass and ribbons built,
like his song,
in careful,
r a n d o m
fashion.
Chasing
blue jay,
grackle,
awkward young starling,
he repels
any who come too near.
My name,
tucked beneath
their wings,
in their
throats and call —
I answer.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Pendant — An Image
After the long night’s
dancing
beneath the full embrace
of moon,
She hung her slippers,
— pendant —
from the arching bough
to bloom —
dew-stitched slips
of ivory.
— C.Birde, 6/17