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
At their feet
lay a low, flowering carpet —
a green invitation.
Patiently,
they await
our
decision.
— C.Birde, 6/17
She flits
among the underbrush,
shadow clad in shadow.
He sings
in liquid, honeysuckled
light and borrowed notes,
songs un-repetitive,
unrepeatable.
A stroke of shadow,
she huddles
atop a nest of sticks and
grass and ribbons built,
like his song,
in careful,
r a n d o m
fashion.
Chasing
blue jay,
grackle,
awkward young starling,
he repels
any who come too near.
My name,
tucked beneath
their wings,
in their
throats and call —
I answer.
— C.Birde, 6/17
After the long night’s
dancing
beneath the full embrace
of moon,
She hung her slippers,
— pendant —
from the arching bough
to bloom —
dew-stitched slips
of ivory.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Once,
we lead the way.
Now,
we’ve walked
away.
Our Blue Mother
grieves
for us.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Allowed to bloom
along the sidewalk,
the privet hedge spills
a white drift of blossoms
in a frill
of sweet scent.
— C.Birde, 6/17
It is not the rain,
nor the drawn, pewtered sky,
but the unexpected rupture,
the rent calm and
aftermath of grief
that pulls,
tugs,
drags like teeth
through shorn grass.
The price of a heart
unbound.
Bear it.
Embrace it.
Sit with it —
an old friend come
to pay respects —
till inching hours blunt
the tooth-and-claw edges.
Ride it out,
like the small,
insistent,
significant storm
that it is.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Duck the twining honeysuckle,
dripping with recent rain,
enter through the open gate
on two legs, four, or six,
on wings;
Let hearts be softened,
fears soothed,
hurts healed;
Leave all anger
and hardness behind
this pocket sanctuary,
to be swept away,
un-needed,
forgotten.
— C.Birde, 5/17