The earth wears gilt
Thy sky runs pewter blue
And I…
I think of you
My bones catch the whiff
of Winter and
rattle in their frame
And all my thoughts
my hopes
of future warmth —
like migratory birds —
return always
to you.
— C.Birde, 11/20
“And when,
in moments of duress,
you forget me…”
Ferns & moss furred
her voice.
“Worry not.
For I
will always remember
you.”
— C.Birde, 11/20
Let go.
Cast off all
that no longer serves
but once served well
and now confines,
constrains the growth
of beating heart,
of wing and song.
Begone.
Exceed those strictures;
self-defined exuviae
at last outgrown.
Slip
restrictive shackles and,
through the atmosphere,
a s c e n d.
— C.Birde, 11/20
Beneath the archway entrance to “Suite Seven”, we meet – she & I.
Guide, in royal purple robes that sweep the bisque-pink floor.
Follow Her through open airy room, up shallow steps, outdoors,
where the galleried stone patio – in artful feat of craftsmanship –
floats above a rippling valley of plush & foliaged green.
She never speaks; smiles & leads to He who wears the cobalt blue
of heaven & instructs me in Inversion.
“Hands here; feet here;
hips & tailbone high;
relax the head & neck.”
Ah…warmth of sun-soaked slates beneath my palms, my soles;
spacious planes of earth & sky agreeably reversed.
Together, He & She delineate my form, glide shrewd hands along
elongated muscles, stacked bones; correct awkward tilts & angles,
structure & position, until all is in alignment, agreement.
She steps back, recedes, Her hands two secrets folded deep within
flared purple sleeves.
He remains, moves His flattened palms in slip-skin circular motion,
between my shoulder blades; base of neck; kneads trapezius;
works flesh & muscle like soft clay; fashions, in their place, a shallow,
gently rimmed concavity.
Utterly painless.
Utter somatic re-shaping, re-formation.
He places there, in that space, the sphere – large, heavy as a bowling ball
& as smoothly polished; blue as His robes;
places that unanticipated & arcane globe in the new-formed bodily basin
of upper back, where it rests – veritable onus, orbicular albatross –
against the occipital ridge at the nape of my neck.
“Don’t move, don’t move…”
His words resound like hollow wind in ocean cave.
“Maintain the Inversion.
Do not lose the ball.
Do not let it roll free
to crush your hands,
your skull.”
The sphere, so deeply blue, so heavy & slipping…slipping & shifting…
shifting & sliding…inching ever forward over & toward my right ear.
Each time, they catch it – He & She.
With pointed re-instruction, He returns it, places it in its corporeal nest.
Again & again & again…
Cannot endure. Was not built for this. Cannot maintain this shape.
Feel the cry forming, deep within – release me release me release me…
Let it
fall.
— C.Birde, 11/20
“Each leaf
tells the story of the tree,”
she said,
“each feather,
the story of the bird.
With each word you speak
& path you choose,
you cast your own story
out into the world…”
A rustle stirred in her
green-sprouted heart.
She smiled, bent close, & whispered:
“But always & ever,
the choosing
is yours.”
— C.Birde, 10/20
These words, I whispered into the open door
of the hallowed, hollow tree:
“Open my eyes.
Sweeten my speech.
Soften my heart.
Gentle my hands.
Broaden my mind.
Strengthen my will.
Deepen my soul.
Remove my fear,
that I might better hear
your reply echo
throughout the elements
surrounding.”
And by “my”, I mean “our”;
and by “I”, I mean “we”.
— C.Birde, 10/20
“Gently, gently, gently.”
From Autumn’s house,
she called;
doors & windows
wide open flung.
“Your grasp –
so tight upon the latch –
restricts advancement
into
light.”
— C.Birde, 10/20
It’s not the same without you here.
I’m less inclined to sit and stare out
the open window
at the sweet-winged visitors amongst
bowed seedheads,
waiting for the words to find their way
through that oculus, transformed and
translated
upon the white page spread before my
fingertips.
I get up, instead, wander – shapeless,
aimless – into the kitchen and load
the dishwasher,
that dark and hungry box, like so many,
that must continually
be fed and filled with the mundane.
When I return, the empty chair remains.
Empty of –
you.
— C.Birde, 10/20
“You cannot pursue
that which is
beside you,
within you,
of you.”
She gentled each word
with a dose of sweet rain.
“You can only sit with it
& offer it
your whole
compassionate
heart.”
— C.Birde, 10/20
Sweet tang of autumn air,
cidery
cool enough to drink
through all the senses
Leaves fall like small fading
stars
to light the path ahead
forward into unknowing
I lift my cup to you in welcome,
dear heart,
and pour a second.
I have been
waiting.
— C.Birde, 10/20