The wait…
The weight
of uncertainty
slides,
lingers
unseen.
Above,
the sky
breaks blue
like song,
& promise,
& spring.
Search
the clouds
for signs
& silver
linings.
Hesitate.
Uncertain.
Biding time.
Weighing.
Waiting.
— C.Birde, 3/20
Wait…
He pauses,
hesitates…
Were they always
there?
That set of stairs –
flaking yellow paint
& crumbling;
so unlike the house
from which
they quietly climb
away …
Those stairs
that burn pale
with jaundiced light,
& curve dustily
clockwise,
upward,
out of sight…
Uncertain,
he climbs,
each step releasing
a sifting,
chalky powder,
each step releasing
memory…
Until…
On the landing,
peering beyond
the doorway’s open arch,
he views the room —
stark,
bare of ornament but
for one small, deep-set
window;
two twin beds thrust
hard against
the wall…
With grief,
a clutch of heart,
he remembers
all.
No place
for children,
for a child.
With flood & rush,
it returns &
he remembers.
O, he remembers
a l l.
— C.Birde, 3/20
While the world
spun &
roared &
thundered…
She cradled
her heart
— like a nestling —
crooning
sweetly.
— C.Birde, 3/20
From
the crown of trees
they call,
their voices
fall
like rain,
dark gems agleam,
aglitter;
rough-cut shards
against
up-tilted ear.
Rasp-
throated, darkling
harbingers
joined
in coarse prelude
to spring.
— C.Birde, 3/20
“You will know me –“
hers was a murmur
to warm
winter’s bones —
“by the garment
I wear —
of snowdrops &
crocus;
by the buds
in my
hair.”
— C.Birde, 3/20
Hereafter,
no acceptance,
no denial.
All,
all a matter
of timing,
of Time.
Trees
link their limbs
in arboreal
prayer.
Birds
frame heaven
in wings, extended.
Walk with me,
our fingers twined,
while questions –
unanswered,
unanswerable –
stir
like phoenixes,
like last Autumn’s
leaves –
rising,
whispering –
within the path
as yet forming
before
us.
— C.Birde, 3/20
There…
Overhead…
A hiccup
of movement
within the vine’s
complex embroidery…
A small bird’s
flick and flitter;
the start and stop
of song,
rising,
falling
in swift,
mercurial tones…
Shape and sound.
Darkness caught
within darkness.
Until –
alighting
on pendent,
leaf-pricked coil –
with open beak,
it sings and —
in rippling song —
emits a
shining beacon
of light
that would challenge
day,
that illuminates
night.
— C.Birde, 2/20
For Lydia
When the day
has slipped,
and all its
burdens –
large,
small,
soul-expanding –
are set
aside;
when sleep
arrives –
calm or fitful,
dreamless or
dream-full;
when the new day
dawns and
the world
(having fulfilled
its obligations)
continues
its slow,
unbroken
revolution;
I will carry
your absence
forward,
always,
in my grief-
softened
heart.
— C.Birde, 2/20
Traffic bisected
the grassland’s
patchwork
in ceaseless tide.
“Only humans,”
she observed,
“will admire
a thing
to its
utter
unmaking.”
— C.Birde, 2/20
“Stop crying –”
O, tears,
disobedient .
“— or I’ll give you
a reason
to cry.”
O, reasons,
manifold,
variable,
unpredictable.
Action begets
reaction;
effect follows
cause.
The river –
dammed,
diverted,
disguised.
Feel
the tears’
slow prick
and glide…
Retreat.
Turn away,
turn
aside.
— C.Birde, 2/20