Distance reveals
the web’s complexity
of form –
those anchors of support,
the strands that spiral
in & down;
Grants the space to see
the pattern of the weave –
the warp & weft of whys,
wherefores that catch
upon proximity.
Grateful of perspective –
room to feel & breathe;
Anxiety of being held
forever fixed in place,
subtracted.
— C.Birde, 1/22
On smooth blacktop
before the barricade,
he waits –
I, beside him –
as the clerk
(severe in appearance
& attitude)
returns again…
Third trip to & from
the store,
he attempts, now,
to bend influence
toward the piece
he has selected
& presents.
No.
Enough of this.
We leave together.
For I possess not one,
but two North Stars –
the first resides
in my right ear;
the other rests
(unworn)
on green velvet,
in a small chest of wood.
“You, my love,” I say,
& guide him through
the empty lot,
away,
“will have the second.”
— C.Birde, 1/22
“Hush, now…”
She pulled the blanket
up beneath
her chin
with a whisper.
“I’m dreaming…”
— C.Birde, 1/22
Trees,
dark-stroked
against a sky obscured
& damply blotted,
lift expectant limbs…
Bare
Exposed
Stripped
to elemental truth.
I stand beneath…
In search of self
& soul
& all that’s sacred
amongst knotted roots
& last’s year’s fallen
leaves.
— C.Birde, 1/22
“I sing a new song
when the months
grow cold,”
her voice carried low
across the landscape’s
scrape & tumble,
“but tune your ear
& you will hear me
crooning
all the same…”
— C.Birde, 12/21
Plush dark…
Through this obscurity,
slowly, the forearm arcs
& scythes,
wrist rotating outward
in sinuous motion until
the palm cups skyward
(gibbous moon gesture)
& fingertips, at length,
draw into line the nest…
A compact bird’s nest,
expertly woven of twigs
& grass & random fibers,
its hollow delicately lined
& not-quite-wholly-filled…
At rest within its center,
a singular egg of pale blue
uncrack’d,
intact.
Two hollows,
full of expectation….
Empty hand & nest…
— C.Birde, 12/21
“Drift with me
through Autumn’s end,”
she sighed
& said.
“Are you not
as tired
as I?”
— C.Birde, 12/21
Catching light,
those flecked dark wings speak
of seasons & distance
& time’s ceaseless passing
The cycles repeat
R e p e a t i n g
Gather me
aloft in collective’s embrace
of wingbeats & banking turns
& maneuvers unspoken,
understood by the whole
In spite of all,
I stand pinned below
attentive
The cycle repeating
R e p e a t s
— C.Birde, 12/21
The flowers
confused
blooming
blue
Forget-Me-Nots
in November.
— C.Birde, 11/21
Improbable box of peculiar dimension
(larger within than without)
& covered in plush fuchsia velvet
Upon lifting the lid
(which doubles as inset tray),
see, set deep within,
a turntable with LP rotating
r o t a t i n g
Lift the record up & out
Tilt it so light catches
& runs along the arc of grooves
incised upon its surface
Note, with some dismay,
that the wider, ungrooved rim slopes
& wriggles across
those tight concentric rings of song
(doubtless interruption)
& arcs toward the cardboard core
where the artist’s name is stamped:
L e d Z e p p e l i n
Sudden undeniable urge to hear
that singular song incised upon the vinyl
Place the record back to spinning
Drop the needle,
see it skip & slide across the grooveless rim
(soundless, songless)
to bump & hiss against the printed core
Again
a g a i n
Fruitless effort
Reset the tonearm to its resting place
Return the improbable box-lid-tray
(smaller without than within)
What’s this?
Resting, now, in the tray’s concavity,
a fabric-wrapped-something that,
upon the freeing of its cloth,
is revealed to be nothing less than
the aviator sunglasses of
musician,
songwriter,
multi-instrumentalist,
& record producer extraordinaire
J i m m y P a g e.
Delighted, hold them cradled in hand
as the improbable & unexpected gift
(treasure)
that they are.
— C.Birde, 11/21