New day,
New Year,
dressed in
yesterday’s dust
and glamor.
Extend
an open hand,
an open mind,
an open heart
in greeting.
— C.Birde, 1/19
New, Anew — A Poem
Treebeard, in Memoriam — Images
It is with a heavy heart that I bear news of Treebeard’s passing. He was felled Wednesday, February 22, 2017. Treebeard was lifelong resident of Greenwood Cemetery, Boonton, and quite possibly, he had made his home there prior to the Cemetery’s establishment in 1876. We became acquainted in his twilight years, twenty-six years ago, and I knew him to be a patient, generous, and forgiving soul. He had seen much in his nearly two centuries. After the loss of a major limb, many years before our first meeting, he sheltered countless families of squirrel’s and birds and insects, without complaint. Concurrent with this limb’s loss, he accepted a vining growth which leant him his moniker. He rooted and grew, suffered and succored. His was a fine example to follow. Though his stump remains to mark his place, I will miss his presence — the green shade of his crown, the length and all-encompassing reach of his shadow; I will miss the song of wind through his leaves, the creak and groan of his massive branches. Rest well, Treabeard. In lieu of flowers, please plant a tree, or nurture and appreciate those you share your life with, whether daily or in passing.
Treebeard’s stump is an impressive 60+ inches across.
Treebeard’s midsection, measuring over 140 inches in circumference.
The massive cavity that, doubtless, lead to his undoing.
The trunk of Treebeard lays stacked in Greenwood Cemetery’s center.
Occluded Eye — A Poem
Bleary smudge of sun…
Pale
occluded eye
caught
within the
Winter sky’s
expanse
and —
blinking —
hints
at all
to come.
— C.Birde, 1/17
Summer’s Night — A Poem
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
Unsolicited Advice — A Poem
I went to the woods
to read aloud
the lichen on the stones
and
the braille-bark trees;
to translate the wildflowers’
bright phrases
and
avian patterns purled
upon the air;
and
I heard,
marked by the arcs
of Sun and Moon and Stars,
Time’s Tale —
coveted, measured,
sought, and spent.
Go. Now.
Don’t wait.
Translate
the curled and tangled rootworks,
the twist of grasses,
and branches’ interweave.
Cup your ear to the Earth’s
loamy breast
and feel its steady beat
thrum through soil and stone.
Press your lips to the sky’s
expanse of wide open blue.
Reacquaint yourself.
Restore yourself.
Heal yourself.
Now.
Go.
— C.Birde, 5/16
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
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
Gentleman Tree — An Image
He stood just off the path, observing his brethren arrayed along the downward slope of hill. Tall and hale, unbent by time, clad in elbow-patched tweeds. We exchanged wordless greeting, each unwilling to disturb the other’s contemplation. I did not learn his name, but no doubt, we will meet again.
Making Space — A Dream
Beyond the panoramic viewing window, a multitude of bright stars pricks the vast, dark expanse of deep space. I see no planets, nothing that resembles Earth — the space station faces outward, not home. It would be comforting, reassuring to see Earth in its expected place. Then again, it could prove nerve-wracking, making all too apparent the hollow, coiling tube that stretches, like an umbilical cord, from the station all the way back to Earth. The tube through which I’ll travel with the others on my return trip. My visit here is over. I’ve seen the old man — he does not look well; his death is a lingering and protracted affair that none of us has enjoyed. But I’ve paid my respects and am scheduled to leave.
So I pack my bags — a small suitcase, a backpack, my purse. Fitting everything in is impossible — my unbound novel in its orderly collection of inch-thick sheets of paper; dictionary; thesaurus; the two books I’m reading. Fortunately, my Mom happens by, sees me struggling to zip the suitcase shut. She offers to help, and I pull out a bottle of olive oil and a round loaf of bread and hand them to her; I keep the bag of pretzels — my son may want them. Now, the case closes, but it’s still so heavy. I’m immediately exhausted pulling, pushing, tugging it along.
For a moment, I pause in my toil to stand and stretch, and, thus, see my Dad. Tall, straight backed, trim — he looks great, like he did years ago when I was a kid. And he’s smiling. An honest-to-goodness, ear-to-ear grin. I tell him how good it is to see him smiling and happy.
But I have to go. Mom leads me to the departure point, where a group of fleet, slim, tall guides wait to lead me to the coiling exit tube. My guess is that the guides are from sub-Saharan Africa — they are well-prepared for an endurance trek. I have no idea how I’ll keep up with them, weighed down by my burdensome suitcase and backpack.
Pumpkins — An Image
Here is a colored pencil drawing I began on Monday. After a brief abandonment, I returned to it yesterday and finished it up. The colors are not exactly “true” — I work on white paper, not toned or tinted, as it might appear. The smaller pumpkin is a mini, and the larger I believe is a Kabocha squash, which I got at our local farmers’ market last Saturday. Much of the produce I pick up at the market does double duty — first, as still life; next as meal. This Kabocha’s destiny is not yet determined — it may find its way into mini pumpkin biscotti, or squash mash over sautéed greens, or a pumpkin barley risotto. Such potential!
Happy Halloween!
PS — Now I’m thinking of pumpkin waffles…and I do love waffles…!