A quilt of worn bricks
remains
beneath moss and needle carpet.
Birch and pine and maple
glide skyward
through broken foundation,
through anamnesis.
And leaf-strewn steps
tumble
d
o
w
n
— like memory —
to the abiding
gray
sea.
— C.Birde, 9/16
I heard the Wood call
in its moss-furred tongue.
I returned
in answer to that heart’s echo,
and was welcomed
as though time had not slipped
and shifted.
— C.Birde, 9/16
Moon’s image
floats
within
a reservoir
of night.
— C.Birde, 9/16
Intentions aside,
their bodies incise
the dry trail’s
dusted length
with their
desperate
search
for
m
o
i
s
t
u
r
e.
— C.Birde, 9/16
My invitation arrived
in the wood
at dawn.
— C.Birde, 9/16
Helianthus nods and smiles
beyond the window,
curious why I sit indoors
when I could be outside,
adorned in goldfinches
and bees.
— C. Birde, 9/16
Stay…
Linger beneath the linden —
that tree of bees
and heart-shaped leaves.
We’ll spread a blanket
in restless shade
over the drowsing heads
of sweet clover,
and name the birds’
erratic patterns
scrawled across the sky.
Together, we’ll drift
as Summer slips
us by.
— C.Birde, 8/16
In a neighboring realm
stands a Toadthrone so grand,
the green grass is left to weave unshorn about it.
(And some secretly anticipate the royal personage
who must
hold court
there.)
— C.Birde, 8/16
Son, sun, and Summer
ease their way toward
absence —
I am well attuned
to the cycle.
And experience
has shown
it appears
far easier to leave
than it feels
to be
left.
— C.Birde, 8/16
Last evening’s sunset,
caught in sky and water.
Breathe,
and release.
— C.Birde, 8/16