Remember
when we stood beneath
the great spruce,
faces tilted upward,
hands lifted to catch
their rough laughter
as it fell –
heavy as pinecones,
bright as crescents of
moonlight –
from those vast,
outstretched limbs?
Six years gone,
the tree cradles silence;
the absence echoes
forward.
We wait below;
patient;
hands
empty.
— C.Birde, 1/19
Curl up
in January’s moon-soaked,
star-swept
arms…
Pull the deep-piled
nights
to chin height…
And slumber,
recuperate,
dream.
— C.Birde, 1/19
On this,
the year’s longest
night,
the tide of dark
steps to the edge,
reverses course
t
o
w
a
r
d
light.
— C.Birde, 12/18
Scatter seed —
feed the small souls
scratching for survival
through dreams of
warmer days and
last season’s
leaf litter.
Scatter the seeds
of kindness.
Harvest songs
of
love.
— C.Birde, 12/18
The foothills
filled with mist
and the crest
wore a crown of trees
and the light shone
softly,
softly
while I roved
a violet
dream.
— C.Birde, 12/18
Observed directly,
the fabric
of illusion
— like a dream —
ripples,
s l e w s,
slips…
— C.Birde, 12/18
Concealing,
revealing in equal turns,
the length and breadth
of night extends
its reach,
paints the lonesome
oaks —
bereft of leaves —
in silence…
Feeling our way
to the edges of that
darkened,
incurious landscape —
heeding, perhaps,
the dormant promise
of dreams and rest and
contemplation —
we hold aloft spheres
of shivering,
self-limiting light,
fearful of what we might
discover.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Desired or
not —
sheen and color
call attention,
while thorns
discourage
t
o
u
c
h
.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Four white bodies,
whiter
than Autumn snow;
sleek and blemishless
and smooth
as the far horizon;
extending,
reaching,
stretching,
and –
with each near-silent,
muscular stroke –
beating
brisk air
to cream.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Light
slips through our
grasp…
Each hour of each day —
paler, thinner,
more threadbare than
its yesterday.
Plumed
in solar flares,
our tongues regale each other
with half-remembered
tales of milder days —
songs of Crow and Centaurus,
and the Great Bear,
of the Herdsman
and his starry flock
spread across the night sky’s
vast backdrop.
Frost-touched,
we’ll pause together
at Winters’ gate and,
reminiscing,
conjure
light.
— C.Birde, 11/18