Once,
not long ago,
the lavender hedge hummed
and trembled,
the foxgloves’ narrow,
yellow throats were lodged
with bees.
Silence, now.
Unadorned absence.
Where is the bee’s champion?
Their Rachel Carson?
When will we exchange
our short-sighted mantra
of “not-our-fault”
for “how-can-we-help”?
And,
in so doing —
in helping these small,
industrious creatures —
help
ourselves?
— C.Birde, 6/16
Foxgloves —
returned to their stems
and left to dry
by the garden gate.
— C.Birde, 6/16
Humble path,
strewn with disks of light
that shift illumination
underfoot,
while overhead
a wind tangles in
trees’ limbs outstretched
with leaves gilt-edged in sun.
No hearts of stone here.
No clenched fists.
Human constructs,
stripped away —
those cramped and
too-small boxes,
all those restrictive,
reductive
labels.
Here,
there is just
wind and song;
life,
and green-gold
light.
— C.Birde, 6/16
This honeysuckled air…
sweet enough to sip,
to draw that ethereal fragrance
— like a warmth —
over the tongue.
— C.Birde, 6/16
The air vibrates,
crackles with alarm,
with a dozen voices lifted.
The sky churns,
a-roil with frantic motion,
with wings that beat —
blue, red, brown, gray —
and claws that flex;
with beaks
that jab and split and scream.
The storm
of this haphazard flock,
focused on a soot-winged marauder.
Adorned in ebony,
he cowers beneath their blows,
beneath the arc and unrelenting descent
of their contempt.
Then, with a sullen croak of “uncle”,
he lifts from the roof’s peak,
spreads shadow wings
and flees.
All is still.
Peace returns.
The makeshift flock disperses.
Later,
tucked within the hedge,
spot-breasted and unfledged,
plucked or dropped or wrested
from the nest,
we find young Robin —
unwitting participant,
and silent witness
to all.
— C.Birde, 6/16
The Moon wanes,
and the sprites have hung their dancing slippers
from the arch of Solomon’s Seal,
their moon-washed gowns and jackets
from the Bleeding Heart.
— C.Birde, 5/16
It was not the answer
I expected when I asked,
“Will you walk with me and she?”
His answer — yes.
We followed that well-used trail
beneath the dripping canopy,
wound our footsteps
over root and stone and skeleton leaf,
while he spoke of things fantastical
and philosophical,
and I interrupted,
naming wildflowers and birdsong —
each admiring the other’s expertise.
(She, well, not a word did she speak.)
He remarked,
as we approached the divide
where the trail ducks
from tree-cover and breaks out
upon the marsh,
that he did not expect
to enjoy this quite so much,
that he had not at all in years past.
We stood a moment,
we three,
among the blown cattails,
listening to the chickadees
and the wind scrape
among greening reeds.
All we had ever had to do
was wait.
–C.Birde, 5/16
To look at ferns…is to look back through time.
— C.Birde, 5/16
I went to the woods
to read aloud
the lichen on the stones
and
the braille-bark trees;
to translate the wildflowers’
bright phrases
and
avian patterns purled
upon the air;
and
I heard,
marked by the arcs
of Sun and Moon and Stars,
Time’s Tale —
coveted, measured,
sought, and spent.
Go. Now.
Don’t wait.
Translate
the curled and tangled rootworks,
the twist of grasses,
and branches’ interweave.
Cup your ear to the Earth’s
loamy breast
and feel its steady beat
thrum through soil and stone.
Press your lips to the sky’s
expanse of wide open blue.
Reacquaint yourself.
Restore yourself.
Heal yourself.
Now.
Go.
— C.Birde, 5/16
Bleeding hearts in the garden —
pin one to my sleeve.
— C.Birde, 5/16