Sitting in a puddle of sunlight; strength and beauty perfectly, neatly encapsulated…
Potential — An Image
Treebeard’s Toes — An Image
Time of Dragonflies — A Dream
He is unlike the others. Whereas they have been tall and thin as reeds, pale-skinned and dark-haired, cool bordering on frosty, and always, always observing with disapproving judgment, this one is gregarious, interested, and full of humor. His skin is warm with captured sunlight, and his brown hair and neat beard and mustache reflect, too, time spent out-of-doors. He is shorter than they have been (though taller than I); his shoulders are broad from use, though he is somewhat softer of flesh.
The evening slides with shadow. Arms crossed over his chest, he leans against a tree in these woods where I work within a small section of kitchen fitted seamlessly into the arboreal landscape — one wall, a pool of linoleum floor. China dishes flash bright as moonlight as I remove them from the breakfront, stack them carefully into cardboard boxes. And he leans and watches my progress, and he talks — he finished the cabinet at last, though it took much longer than expected. The inlays had been intricate, complex; the spindles and turned legs delicate. Packing the cabinet for shipment had taken additional time and care. He had feared his return here, to me, would not coincide with the time of dragonflies, is pleased to find otherwise. At this last observation, I pause to glance about me with surprise and delight — the dragonflies are everywhere. They dart and hover within the bowl of night, iridescent wings glancing brightly. I am haloed with their movements; they rest on my hair and shoulders.
Now, he makes simple statements — “I like this”, “I like that”. My flat response to each of his utterances affirms my agreement, though I keep unshelving the China, continue to pack and stack it, confine it to cardboard. Until he utters his last adoration — and I turn excitedly, my skirts swirling and licking about my ankles — “So do I!!!”
Paper Lanterns — A Truth
Mischief August grants a pleasant evening,
an offering of farmer’s market fare,
fruited wine and watermelon,
torches lit in semi-circle,
chairs arranged in arcs over Summer lawn,
from hours away and across the street,
friends and family gather,
hugs and greetings,
introductions,
a small society builds,
community strengthens,
laughter and conversation as nightfall swells,
popcorn rattles and pings,
crickets sing from treetop vantage,
fireflies stitch the darkening perimeter,
voices hush,
black and white images confined to screen,
a sweet story,
gentle in humor,
an invitation to indulge kindness,
and above,
the paper lanterns,
moving, swaying
from the pine tree’s limbs
on invisible threads.
— C.Birde
Illumination — An Image
Loss — A Poem
Tattered, tossed, and torn,
snatched by storm.
Delicate, dusted wings denuded.
Plumed antennae plucked.
The furred body floundered —
a slim slip of moon
cast down beneath
the ragged lash
of rain.
–C.Birde
Avian Arrangement — A Truth
Follow up to “Days of Song & Raisins”
Continue reading“Cloud Bound Sky” — An Image
Blue Moon — A Poem
Gather bouquets
of primrose and artemisia,
of white moon flower,
and bind them with ribbons
of lace-edged shadow.
Bead your wrists and ankles
with silver starlight
and weave its tendrilled glow
into a wreath to illumine your hair.
Persistent as tide,
rhythmic as heart-beat —
absorb the pulsing, night-song chorus
of cicada and cricket,
of fox and owl,
through the pores of your skin.
Beg the attendance of fireflies
and dust-winged moths
to accompany you,
and welcome
the Blue Moon.
–C. Birde
Imprisoned — A Dream
The parking lot is empty; its perimeters are indistinguishable at this late hour and recede into darkness beyond my vision. Before me is a great, featureless wall of concrete, pale against the dark sky — a cement-block prison. No guards, no wires, no alarms. I enter without ceremony on a “good-will” mission.
The space within is a single, large, dimly-lit rectangle. Iron bars stretch from floor to ceiling here and there in an almost decorative fashion, without actually forming cells or enclosures of any kind. Gray-clad men of teen- and middle age fill the space — collectively, they stand very still, very calm, with hands in pockets and heads bowed. They are listless, swaying slightly in place, though they seem to note my arrival in a bleak and disinterested manner. At this moment, I realize that my scarf is missing, and I understand, to my sadness and disappointment, that one of the men has taken it. As I glance about, not one among them seems to have moved, but neither will any of them meet my eye. Each man stares at his scuffed black shoes.
Once again, I stand outside the prison, alone in the dark and empty parking lot. This time, my arms spill with scarves. I’ve brought one for each of the men within, and for the man who took my scarf, I’ve chosen one in particular — it is a length of deep, dark blue with the black silhouettes of flying birds scattered over it.
Passing through the prison’s blank facade and its purposeless iron bars, I stand amidst the men. They are slightly more animated, curious about the scarves. The birded-blue scarf passes from my hands without my knowledge. But, once my arms are emptied, my own previously stolen scarf gently encircles my neck again.
