Spill of rain —
that chorus of singular heartbeats
joined,
murmuring insistant voices
that slip between
the furred edge dividing
dream
from waking;
I would listen to that
Ancient rhythm,
a tidal memory pulling
upon my veins;
I would wear that wild scent
dabbed on wrists and throat,
blue-gray and violet curled
about my ankles.
I would linger in this song,
this memory of rain,
and wash
my heart of grief.
— C.Birde, 4/16
A nodding head that crowns a whip of green stem, Narcissus dreams during sun and shower alike — echo of light on the bright days, softly luminous on the gray.
An unkindness of wind —
no gentle breeze,
nor exiting lamb,
but a sundering;
A dispassionate tearing
that strips bud and blossom
and exposes the maple’s
soft and aging heart.
I cannot sleep
for the arboreal cries it exacts,
for its moan among
the pine’s fringed and lashing limbs,
for its persistence upon
the window’s too-thin panes.
It wants entry.
It has torn through
one-hundred years of wood
and would add a bone —
or several dozen —
to its discards.
–C.Birde, 4/16
We wore the morning lightly, pearl gray on our shoulders, as we entered the golden wood. Our steps raised small ivory- and lavender-winged moths. Smudge of Bluebird among uplifted branches. (If one should ever alight in my hand and request a portrait, I will gladly oblige.) Song of Red-Winged Blackbird. Chickadee, Titmouse, White-Throated Sparrow. Robin and Nuthatch and Blue Jay.
Gently, the path wandered around roots and over smooth-backed stones. Patches of periwinkle poked through leaf litter, and ferns unfurled green fronds. Trees garbed in tiny floral buds of scarlet, lime-green, pale yellow. Evidence of a reluctant Spring.
Creeks slowly remembering themselves, seeping in trickles to fill their beds and the reedy marsh below. The Spring Peepers’ chorus — mere weeks ago, a throb of voices issuing from any damp pocket — now reduced, here and there, to solo artists.
Shallow tumble of earthen banks studded with skunk cabbage — sweet fragrance laced the air, but the cabbages made no to claim to its creation. Ribboned among their hooded numbers, a garter snake gathered clouded sunlight.
Ancient dryad bid us good morning, arched stiffened limbs in gesture toward a path through the marsh. Though presently dry, it would not remain so with the season’s continued unfolding.
Thus we walked, land dipping slightly. Fringe of greening wood falling back and away, giving way to passable marsh. Skeletal gray trees thrust up through pale interweave. Overhead, clouds gathered, sky brooded. Forest of parchment reeds and grass surrounded, leaning against each other in quickening wind to speak in rasps. We stood amidst that motion, that rustling sigh.
We gathered what we could — in sensation and memory — to store away as need arises. When next we return, our steps will pass over familiar ground, but all will have changed. And as observant as we attempt to be, as present as we will endeavor to be, our limited senses will miss so very much.
Hastening
after that slender snippet
of dried grass
that slipped from
his grasp,
he tumbles from
the roof’s spine,
scrabbles over shingles
giving chase —
and it eludes,
that straw-pale length,
so perfect,
so well suited to
his task,
that he persists
and dives,
frantically parting
damp air
on drawn wings
till both settle
upon green-fringed
soil.
Clutched in
bent-wire claw,
he soars to the eaves
to stuff it in
amongst a mass of
similar
lengths and bits —
that perfect piece.
Silly sparrow.
Such display over one
blade so like
another.
But —
do we,
ourselves,
not do
the very same?
— C.Birde, 3/16
The duality of time — its elemental truth, its illusion — marked by the sun’s certain progress. Below and apart, we stand stunned, pointing.
There was a little dog
who had a curl of tail
right at the base of her spine.
And when she was bad
she was naughty as could be
But when she was good, she was just fine.
She enjoyed a good long walk —
up the mountain, round the block —
where’ere her pointed paws might wander.
And when she had found
some curiosity,
that curl of tail would still, that she might ponder.
All chores she would attend
in unrelenting fashion —
from window, porch and door and garden.
But come evening’s fall,
darkness pressed to every pane,
The nearest lap she’d seek to curl that tail in.
–C.Birde
(With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Our pursuit of Spring continues. We gathered evidence at Tourne park — nodules of skunk cabbage thrust from mud; yellow-green haze softens twiggy branches; heady scent of warming Earth. Though she hides, she is evident in the throats of songbirds.
Quiet,
in the woods today —
but for vermillion rush of Maples’ budding,
and wind scraping Autumn from pale Beech leaves,
and reverberating chorus of Spring Peepers’ awakening,
and whisk of garter snake slipping past pond’s lips,
and chipmunk calling the season to order,
and rain of woodpecker’s laughter.
All quiet,
in the woods today —
but for my intruding step,
heartbeat,
breath.
— C.Birde
Morning steps lightly over the Reservoir, brushing the surface with memory…