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
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
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 unfurl,
uncurling slowly to a tune of their own making.
— C.Birde, 4/16
Aural alchemist,
transform the crowd you’ve gathered,
random notes to song.
— C.Birde, 4/16
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!)
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
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.
Spill of rain —
that chorus of singular heartbeats
joined,
murmuring insistant voices
that slip between
the furred edge dividing
dream
from waking;
I would listen to that
Ancient rhythm,
a tidal memory pulling
upon my veins;
I would wear that wild scent
dabbed on wrists and throat,
blue-gray and violet curled
about my ankles.
I would linger in this song,
this memory of rain,
and wash
my heart of grief.
— C.Birde, 4/16
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.