Planted to tempt hummingbirds,
native honeysuckle climbs and clambers
up over the garden arch,
wriggles amongst the privet,
stretches and tumbles unrestrained
in quest of sunlight.
Scarlet success on all counts.
— C.Birde, 7/16
Long has Orion
slipped below the horizon.
The dog stars run loose
over the vast dark sky.
Crickets strum
barbed legs in song.
And I lie awake,
considering
the heat-washed nights
of Summer.
— C.Birde, 7/16
Haze thickened air
stretches over morning’s tender hours,
accompanied by the ratchet and whir
of cicada chorus —
promises of heat to come.
— C.Birde, 7/16
The benefits of casual gardening,
detailed in small passages –
Mystery squash,
casting tendrils toward the Burning bush,
abloom with ulterior motive.
The weed pail
filling,
before the work is done.
Rogue tomatoes,
erupting from loamy beds
and window baskets,
pushing aside rhubarb leaves.
Fireflies and ladybugs,
and slim-limbed mantises,
and beatific bees.
Queen Anne’s lace,
tatting the yard and
adorned in cabbage moths.
Patches of shade,
rotating about the house,
cool refuge from the sun’s eye.
Leeks’ heads
nodding heavy crowns;
bindweed
twining and trumpeting
Lady’s thumbs,
tickling catmint;
Black eyed Susans
studying Swiss chard.
The small yard
taking shape under
Nature’s guiding hand.
Near-motionless rabbits
nibbling sweet clover;
quick chipmunks
excavating neat holes
beneath tonic lavender;
and everywhere,
everywhere,
the stir and song
of birds.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Yes. Let’s pause a bit,
and while you bow to inhale
the roses’ breath,
I’ll gather Fennel and Fleabane
and frothing Queen Anne’s Lace
to weave together —
a Summer Crown
to set upon your brow.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Little Wren
builds a nest
outside the window’s frame
within a house
suspended,
pendant,
beneath the sheltering
azalea.
Industrious,
he stuffs it full,
a perfection
of twigs and sticks
collected and thrust
through a hole
cut just large enough
to permit his entry.
Bold creature,
far larger in spirit
than his diminutive frame
suggests,
he sings the yard’s
perimeter,
claims it as his own
with staccato notes
hurled upon the air
in rapid punctuation.
Little king —
I am an earthbound peasant,
well pleased to occupy
the earth beneath
your aerial
realm.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Blazing July sun
flings spears of heat and light
as it advances through the garden.
— C.Birde, 7/16
For a moment,
let the words lie still
upon my tongue,
Allow my busy mind
to alter
this landscape of sound —
hum and wash of traffic
becomes the Ocean’s distant voice;
yawn of plane spells
the ache and groan of Summer —
that I might hear,
instead,
Her varied tongue
in the wind’s movement
through the trees
and over a landscape
that scatters and dashes with life;
that I might hear
the lap and memory
of water tasting its warmed banks,
and the downward spill
among smooth-skinned beeches
of Wood Thrush’ song;
that I might hear
Gray Catbird call my name.
Let my words spill away,
for a moment,
that when my voice
has stilled,
my silence
goes
unnoticed.
— C.Birde, 7/16
Hypnotic whorl of Coneflower —
Floral expression
of Fibonacci’s Sequence.
— C.Birde, 6/16
Not looking,
I discovered.
Returning,
I searched.
And now,
I wonder
what wonders
I missed
in my
deliberate
pursuit.
— C.Birde, 6/16
