Promises –
measured in fireflies,
rising mercury,
night’s contraction;
Illusion –
heartfelt,
collective,
persistent;
There will be more
time.
Causal & corollary,
the tasks increase –
with each coveted inch
of light,
each slow-tracking bead
of sweat.
Mirage.
Fever dream.
Summer fiction.
— C.Birde, 7/18
The gray and brooding sky
beguiles and
— at long last —
softens
the Summer day star’s
brutal,
blinding eye.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Fire flies…
Embers borne on
the tails of winged insects
etch our Fate on the night’s bowed back.
Fireflies.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Each
single
separate
solitary
drop
slips
slides
surrenders
as one to
f
a
l
l
i
n
g.
— C.Birde, 6/18
With ladder, broom,
and twine,
we train —
the vines and I;
together climb
toward light,
extend and weave,
tendrils seeking,
inch by precious inch,
height and purchase,
something solid
on which to cling
in our abiding
search.
— C.Birde, 6/18
At the stone circle’s head,
amongst the strips and slips
and tags of paper
fluttering
in the Hawthorn Tree,
I set my wish —
Words scrawled
on a lined sheet folded,
shaped and creased —
A paper crane,
with a prayer for Peace
nested at its
heart.
— C.Birde, 6/18
Sitting
in restless light
I write — one, two, three lines…
Pause… and drop treats for the locals…
Repeat.
— C.Birde, 6/18
Count
the shades of green.
Consider —
shifts of light,
and breeze-stirred
leaves…
Count again.
Again.
Until birdsong fills
that over-muscled organ
secured beneath
protective ribs.
Until the memory
surfaces —
This
is
the way.
— C.Birde, 6/18
The air
so sweet in June,
perfumed, anointed in
mock orange and honeysuckle
bloom — breathe.
— C.Birde, 6/18
Ireland —
misted isle
of perpetual green,
slate-boned and
clad
in moss and fern and
wild foxglove,
beclouded
with sheep —
In Ireland,
I did not dream…
Ireland
was
the dream.
— C. Birde, 6/18