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
Their exhale;
our inhale.
Breath,
co-mingled.
— C.Birde, 7/17
His hands,
so young and full
of potential —
open as his heart —
repaired the gap
and gently scooped
the hatchling up,
slipped it,
with a silver spoon,
back into
the nest.
— C.Birde, 7/17
If you have one chipmunk,
you have three;
If you have three chipmunks,
you have fifteen;
If you have fifteen,
they will call the day’s news,
in rapid fire staccato,
from the garden bench;
and beneath the old miniature rose;
and from the corner behind the garage
by the rain barrels.
Most likely,
they will excavate
a complex system of tunnels
beneath the side steps
to the converted back porch,
and divert
the flow of fallen rain that
— recently, mysteriously —
began weeping through
the house’s north facing
hundred-plus-year-old
basement wall.
They will expect peanuts,
and will make their requests
from under the lavender hedge;
and beneath the curled, green ferns;
and from all corners
of the house and yard and garden.
Keep a number of nuts tucked
in your pockets at all times,
though this will not prevent them
from heedlessly running
over your bare feet and toes
when you open the door
and stand on the side steps
with that offering.
If you see one chipmunk,
you may see three;
If you see three chipmunks,
you may well see fifteen;
And if you see fifteen,
you had best have your
inter-species agreements
quickly drawn up and notarized,
for the benefit of all,
by a neutral third party.
(The Nuthatch, perhaps.)
— C.Birde, 7/17
With our backs pressed
to the smooth, silver trunk
of the Beech,
We’ll sip sassafras tea
and decipher the patterns
of steam
scrawled
upon the fragrant
morning air.
— C.Birde, 6/17
The crush and shout
of the larger world
persists
beyond these fringed,
green borders
where, time and again,
I return
to drink
the Wood Thrush’s tonic
of sung sunlight,
to feel
the fern’s frill-lipped
cool breath against
my calves,
to absorb the drum and patter
of rain upon
the woods’ sheltering
green canopy.
I come to cleanse myself –
of grief and pain and worry;
to drench myself
in green.
— C. Birde, 6/28/17
Like rain falling,
f
a
l
l
e
n,
Memories collect
to dimple
the surface.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Seconds,
Minutes,
Hours –
The slow and certain accumulation
of six-months’ time
tilts the scales
in daylight’s favor.
Solstice of Summer.
Exultant and unaware,
we blissfully tread
the insubstantial
garment of our shadows,
as the Hours
Minutes,
Seconds
steadily
reverse
their
course.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Helianthus nods and smiles
beyond the window,
curious why I sit indoors
when I could be outside,
adorned in goldfinches
and bees.
— C. Birde, 9/16
In a neighboring realm
stands a Toadthrone so grand,
the green grass is left to weave unshorn about it.
(And some secretly anticipate the royal personage
who must
hold court
there.)
— C.Birde, 8/16