
Amongst the verticality of trees
— their communal and elemental truth —
there is solace.
— C.Birde, 9/16


Amongst the verticality of trees
— their communal and elemental truth —
there is solace.
— C.Birde, 9/16


A quilt of worn bricks
remains
beneath moss and needle carpet.
Birch and pine and maple
glide skyward
through broken foundation,
through anamnesis.
And leaf-strewn steps
tumble
d
o
w
n
— like memory —
to the abiding
gray
sea.
— C.Birde, 9/16


I heard the Wood call
in its moss-furred tongue.
I returned
in answer to that heart’s echo,
and was welcomed
as though time had not slipped
and shifted.
— C.Birde, 9/16

Moon’s image
floats
within
a reservoir
of night.
— C.Birde, 9/16

Intentions aside,
their bodies incise
the dry trail’s
dusted length
with their
desperate
search
for
m
o
i
s
t
u
r
e.
— C.Birde, 9/16

My invitation arrived
in the wood
at dawn.
— C.Birde, 9/16

Four paws pause
on the mountain’s graveled flank —
she gathers news
from weed and shrub,
root and stone;
pulls me along.
No matter that I am
near senseless to all
she perceives –
I am content
to wait and contemplate
the weave of breeze
among branch and leaf
pressed to the breast
of gray-clad sky;
to gather for safe-keeping
the coruscating mantras
of crickets, birds and tree frogs
as wards against
future silence.
I am content
to admire those
steely wildflowers
that scatter fairy light
over the forest’s
parched floor
for as long
as I am permitted…
Until, urgently,
I am pulled
to move again —
rapidly and ever onward —
toward the next
newsworthy
site.
–C.Birde, 9/16


Helianthus nods and smiles
beyond the window,
curious why I sit indoors
when I could be outside,
adorned in goldfinches
and bees.
— C. Birde, 9/16


Stay…
Linger beneath the linden —
that tree of bees
and heart-shaped leaves.
We’ll spread a blanket
in restless shade
over the drowsing heads
of sweet clover,
and name the birds’
erratic patterns
scrawled across the sky.
Together, we’ll drift
as Summer slips
us by.
— C.Birde, 8/16


In a neighboring realm
stands a Toadthrone so grand,
the green grass is left to weave unshorn about it.
(And some secretly anticipate the royal personage
who must
hold court
there.)
— C.Birde, 8/16