She dogs
(literally)
my heels.
Small paws click
across the floor
in hopes of telltale sign
(she reads between
the lines)
of her aim.
We could walk forever
(figuratively)
and not satisfy
her need
to explore those clumps
of grass and slants of
broken curb we’ve visited
before.
I understand —
habituated to routine and
self-made grooves,
I am grateful of her insistent,
pleading
(anthropomorphized…?)
stare.
At leash’s end,
she leads me
(freely)
out,
around,
and everywhere.
— C.Birde, 6/19
She
sows her seeds
deep within
us
where they may
bloom,
safeguarded
from the blades
of language.
All
we must do
is listen.
— C.Birde, 6/19
Will we
find each other
again?
The mist surged
down the mountain
in cresting wave
to finger fern and
moss and
foxglove,
to curl over
stone.
Monochopsis –
the subtle and
persistent feeling
of being out of place
in the world.
Flock-incised,
the path looped back
and forth
through wildsome,
wildflowered turf;
through beauty;
into obscurity.
Into dream.
Will we find
each other
again?
— C.Birde, 6/19
Lemon-
scented antique,
frills pleated with perfume —
I breathe.
— C.Birde, 5/19
Each year,
in out-sized voice,
he makes his
declaration;
small, bold auctioneer
rapidly proclaiming
his fine qualities
and wares –
twig-and-stick
nest sites
of considerable
envy.
Yet,
when the song
has threaded through
privet and azalea,
when negotiations
are exchanged,
decisions made
and settled —
despite my hopes,
my efforts to
accommodate —
another site is —
doubtlessly,
regrettably —
selected.
— C.Birde, 5/19
Remember?
Following her?
Obediently?
Without question?
The path she laid,
so overgrown…
so dense and thick
and muddied to near
impossibility…
Impassability…
Struggling…
Onward…
Ever onward…
Until it split…
There –
where she chose
the dark and lightless
fork that curved down
and underground –
another way…
Aboveground.
A tangle, still,
of roots exposed
and vining growth.
Its own struggle,
true;
but one that lead,
ultimately,
here –
to this cozy place
cradled within rolling
hillside,
snugged within green
meadow.
That lead, ultimately,
to him.
Stand together –
side-by-side,
shoulder-to-shoulder –
in this place of solace.
Look beyond
the triptych windows —
the meadow’s verdure
shines against
the sky’s brooding gray.
Approaching rain
cannot blunt
such happiness,
such contentedness.
Unless…
Until…
The horizon boils
with looming storm…
No simple tumult
of thunderheads, this;
a fierce display of
fuchsia
pink and
tangerine
that hovers –
stationary, yet roiling –
in the distance.
Slowly,
it approaches,
expands
unfolds,
consumes
the sky in violence and
agitation.
As it nears,
the very air turns
intensely sweet,
sugary to taste.
From billowing clouds
of pink and plum,
a lance of lightning –
brilliant,
frightening,
scorching
the air to burnt-sugar —
strikes the cherry tree,
reduces limbs abloom
and trunk to chars.
Understand –
like that bright bolt –
in brilliant flash
of insight…
Those preceding years
of dutiful adherence,
the sugar-pink
obediences
must be
abandoned,
discarded,
surrendered.
Hurriedly,
gather them up,
hurl them without
to churning wind
that lifts and tosses
each offering
down the grassy slope,
where –
one
two
three
four –
each is consumed
in holy fire.
Such relief
to have retained so little,
to be free of danger.
Such dread
for those who yet carry
so much,
whom this sweet storm
will undoubtedly
and utterly
devour.
— C.Birde, 5/19
Desperately,
emphatically,
unabashedly
A-swoon,
besotted,
in love with
Spring.
— C.Birde, 5/19
Astounding
to see such skeins
of citron-green
pollen
billowing,
side-winding,
lacing
each mischief May
breeze
yet hear nary a
single,
solitary,
sneeze.
.
.
.
(Bless you!)
— C.Birde, 5/19
I do
my best thinking
in Nature’s
company…
although the
thinking
— admittedly —
f
e
e
l
s
like
knowing.
.
.
.
— C.Birde, 5/19
Returned
– at last –
that sweet-voiced
family.
Descendants.,
all.
Clad in morning
coats and caps,
feathered gray.
Now,
I will put away
– at last –
winter’s bleak
attire,
remove my heart
from safeguarded
place,
return it
– at last –
to its nestspace
betwixt my ribs.
At last.
— C.Birde, 5/19