Decked
in white fringe,
gold tassels,
diagonals
of light,
late summer stirs
and
lingers,
reluctant to
depart.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Departure — Images
Finale — A Poem
Born
on the heels of
thunder,
when,
the evening prior,
the night sky
bloomed
with asters and
fiery
chrysanthemums.
A blaze of moments.
The season fades.
The psychic end
of summer.
— C.Birde, 9/6/17
Rebirth — An Image
Sealed off
in a doorless
chamber,
she dreams
and labors
and makes
of herself
a new
self.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Ruby-throat — A Poem
The space,
so recently occupied,
still vibrates —
a scrap of atmosphere
stirred to warmth
by wings and pulse
beating too swift
to measure.
Stare —
cheek flush to heated air
where she speedily
unstitched the seams
of passing breeze
and slipped away,
like summer.
— C.Birde, 8/30/17
Icarus — An Image
From a lofty height
he sang
a song of longing
and desire,
and when
— like Icarus —
he fell,
his wings of glass
and copper-threaded
wire
could not
s
a
v
e
him.
— C.Birde, 8/17
Eclipsed — A Poem
Sly wink and glide,
she eludes
his fiery grasp,
and scatters
her Cheshire grin
in countless
bright crescents
to mark her passage.
No portents here.
Rather,
a coy,
lunar sway
as,
smoothly,
she slips before
his wide,
unblinking
eye.
— C.Birde, 8/17
Phase — An Image
He creeps amongst
the fennel stems,
content to nibble
fragrant, feathered
leaves.
He never dreams
of flight.
— C.Birde, 8/11/17
Blueberry Moon — A Poem
Crickets sing
a tidal song —
legion notes united,
lapping one
against another.
Too close,
too rapid to measure
the hairsbreadth space
between,
to take the night’s
aural temperature.
But it is cool for August.
Pull the blankets up.
Listen –
The crickets’ evensong
washes
against thin-paned glass,
and bears
the swollen Moon
through
Her arching
transit.
— C.Birde, 8/17
Rumors — An Image
On the languid summer breeze,
carried by the breath of trees,
I heard a rumor —
that if one is patient enough
and still enough
for long enough,
the diminutive and dainty
Asiatic Daylily
will alight in one’s
outstretched palm
and sing.
Well worth the effort,
for its pitch
is perfect.
— C.Bird, 8/17
Mirages — A Poem
Shrill summer —
heady spell of drama,
pushed and pulled
to extremes.
A full-throated
shout
of heat and light and
expectation,
swollen
beyond tolerance.
Cicadas rehearse
their one-note
chorus,
and sparrows leave
shallow depressions
beneath the hedge
to mark
their baths of dust.
Disconnected,
we hide and bemoan
the heat,
impoverished time,
our stillborn
dreams.
— C.Birde, 8/2/17
