Without,

the birds flit and huddle

amongst silvered branches;

squirrels are plushly bundled

against the dipping cold;

thickened shadows stretch

and recline,

obedient to the sun’s lowered,

glancing angle —

All is blanched of color,

rinsed in flinty tones.

But within these walls

for a moment —

for a breath —

the ceiling is stroked with color;

a smooth field of white strung

with jeweled notes

as narrow rays strike

that small drop of faceted glass,

and pass

through myriad polished faces —

Bending,

refracting,

brightening.

 

 

— C.Birde, 1/16

 

 

Amnesiac Winter

paid a brief visit,

confused,

complaining of jet-stream detours,

converging pressures,

ingratitude;

of invitations received late

and mislaid.

Unsettled,

he wandered,

muttering a fog,

flinging fistfuls of hail

over greening lawns and

bruising the blooms

of pink-fringed trees

that had the nerve to flower

in his absence.

— C.Birde

 

 

Weaving through

the misted morn,

through soft-furred edges

of gray chill,

I stirred a cloud of birds —

blackbirds, all.

As one, they rose,

an avian inhalation,

a gasp

of feathered wings;

when I only wish to be

the tree

in whose branches

they might alight.

–C.Birde