Bleeding hearts in the garden —
pin one to my sleeve.
— C.Birde, 5/16
Bleeding Hearts — An Image
Beechwood — A Poem
To stand a moment
where light and shadow fall
like Autumn leaves in Spring
and, in so pausing,
hear
the flutter of
those caught-in-amber notes,
strung like beads of sunlight
upon sweet, scentless air,
is to better understand
the exchange
of Odysseus and the Sirens —
my need to listen,
captivated,
and Thrush’s need
to sing.
— C.Birde, 5/16
Trillium — An Image
There, in the corner garden —
step beyond the fringe of ferns and
part the bleeding hearts —
stands Trillium,
her frock translucent
with rain.
— C.Birde, 5/16
Alignment — A Poem
Again,
through Time’s curious weave,
I see
the tree sees me.
And we might agree,
could we align the speeds
at which,
individually,
we live and breathe —
stretch my own,
perhaps,
accelerate the tree’s —
when next we meet,
we might take our ease
and speak.
Heart to heart,
soul to soul,
hand to leaf.
— C.Birde, 5/16
Ferns — Images
Ferns unfurl,
uncurling slowly to a tune of their own making.
— C.Birde, 4/16
Maple Light — An Image
Maple’s leaves, still young and pale and sticky with light.
(Dedicated to my friend and walking and writing companion, who notices the small things and gently encourages. Thank you!)
Aqualibrium Lost– A Poem
Too soon, too hot —
where addled Winter lingered,
imperious Summer now intrudes.
One rainy April day, or two —
a month that should run
with thawed soil,
dewy damp for all that awakens
thirsty after a season’s rest.
To the south, the earth drowns;
here, drawing the trowel to transplant
clutches of Forget-Me-Nots,
I release gasps of dust.
Fret not —
the Reservoir is full,
the little creeks run;
but I am no Aesopian Grasshopper,
able to fiddle away my cares,
nor that Fable-ist’s industrious ants.
My worries wake me
in the too-warm night to run,
fleet as deer,
through a dry wood,
star-shod hooves raising ribbons
of skeletal leaves
to mark their passage.
–C.Birde, 4/16
Well Rooted — An Image
This old beech tree has snaked roots deep into the earth over such a long period of time, it seems to anchor its bit of forest in place. Around it, scores of robins dip their heads to dart and scurry through the leaf litter, while, in contrast, the tree itself moves too slowly for any eye to see — ever upward, ever inward.
Narcissus — An Image
A nodding head that crowns a whip of green stem, Narcissus dreams during sun and shower alike — echo of light on the bright days, softly luminous on the gray.
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
