Aural alchemist,
transform the crowd you’ve gathered,
random notes to song.
— C.Birde, 4/16
Alchemist — A Poem
Aqualibrium Lost– A Poem
Too soon, too hot —
where addled Winter lingered,
imperious Summer now intrudes.
One rainy April day, or two —
a month that should run
with thawed soil,
dewy damp for all that awakens
thirsty after a season’s rest.
To the south, the earth drowns;
here, drawing the trowel to transplant
clutches of Forget-Me-Nots,
I release gasps of dust.
Fret not —
the Reservoir is full,
the little creeks run;
but I am no Aesopian Grasshopper,
able to fiddle away my cares,
nor that Fable-ist’s industrious ants.
My worries wake me
in the too-warm night to run,
fleet as deer,
through a dry wood,
star-shod hooves raising ribbons
of skeletal leaves
to mark their passage.
–C.Birde, 4/16
Yesterdays, Rain — A Poem
Spill of rain —
that chorus of singular heartbeats
joined,
murmuring insistant voices
that slip between
the furred edge dividing
dream
from waking;
I would listen to that
Ancient rhythm,
a tidal memory pulling
upon my veins;
I would wear that wild scent
dabbed on wrists and throat,
blue-gray and violet curled
about my ankles.
I would linger in this song,
this memory of rain,
and wash
my heart of grief.
— C.Birde, 4/16
Aeolian Harvest — A Poem
An unkindness of wind —
no gentle breeze,
nor exiting lamb,
but a sundering;
A dispassionate tearing
that strips bud and blossom
and exposes the maple’s
soft and aging heart.
I cannot sleep
for the arboreal cries it exacts,
for its moan among
the pine’s fringed and lashing limbs,
for its persistence upon
the window’s too-thin panes.
It wants entry.
It has torn through
one-hundred years of wood
and would add a bone —
or several dozen —
to its discards.
–C.Birde, 4/16
Perfection — A Poem
Hastening
after that slender snippet
of dried grass
that slipped from
his grasp,
he tumbles from
the roof’s spine,
scrabbles over shingles
giving chase —
and it eludes,
that straw-pale length,
so perfect,
so well suited to
his task,
that he persists
and dives,
frantically parting
damp air
on drawn wings
till both settle
upon green-fringed
soil.
Clutched in
bent-wire claw,
he soars to the eaves
to stuff it in
amongst a mass of
similar
lengths and bits —
that perfect piece.
Silly sparrow.
Such display over one
blade so like
another.
But —
do we,
ourselves,
not do
the very same?
— C.Birde, 3/16
Dog Tail — A Poem
There was a little dog
who had a curl of tail
right at the base of her spine.
And when she was bad
she was naughty as could be
But when she was good, she was just fine.
She enjoyed a good long walk —
up the mountain, round the block —
where’ere her pointed paws might wander.
And when she had found
some curiosity,
that curl of tail would still, that she might ponder.
All chores she would attend
in unrelenting fashion —
from window, porch and door and garden.
But come evening’s fall,
darkness pressed to every pane,
The nearest lap she’d seek to curl that tail in.
–C.Birde
(With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Quietude — A Poem
Quiet,
in the woods today —
but for vermillion rush of Maples’ budding,
and wind scraping Autumn from pale Beech leaves,
and reverberating chorus of Spring Peepers’ awakening,
and whisk of garter snake slipping past pond’s lips,
and chipmunk calling the season to order,
and rain of woodpecker’s laughter.
All quiet,
in the woods today —
but for my intruding step,
heartbeat,
breath.
— C.Birde
Embrace — A Poem
Step within that ligneous womb;
receive
the Tree’s embrace.
Press spine to sapwood,
cheek to curve of fibrous wall.
Close your eyes.
Breathe.
Within that smooth-edged concavity,
lend your heart,
the rapid patter of that bright muscle’s
beat —
so contrary to arboreal thrum
that has pulsed a
century
too low for human ears to hear,
more deliberate,
more at ease.
Emerge renewed with Sylvan tongue,
beneath a sky unfolding
dream.
–C.Birde, 3/16
Dreams of Spring — A Poem
Still, She sleeps,
and doubtless dreams
(as do I)
of slips of things
new and green —
curling, budding, tendrilling.
Waxing Moon pressed to Her brow,
sunlight’s memory gathered to Her heart.
Veins, a migration of stirring wings.
Patience,
patience —
The dream remains unbroken.
Disturb Her not.
And when I cry aloud for haste —
please,
please —
remind me of the same.
— C.Birde, 2/16
Cranes — A Poem
Hope and heartache —
that small fluctuating flock
gathered in slender maple’s limbs,
suspended adrift,
strung at the ends of gilt threads.
Once square sheets of paper,
smooth white bellies inscribed
in ink and symbol,
folded, creased, refolded,
each careful line pressed smooth.
Cathartic act —
bright birds hatched,
conjured from one dimension,
each a care transfigured
and set to flutter within that humble tree
in ephemeral offering
to Time and weather’s whim
and dissolution —
And yet, year round,
the tree leans,
abloom in brilliant color.
–C.Birde
