“Bee Tongue” — C.Birde, 9/24
Humm of a hundred
bees…
My garden is a mess…
Contentment lives
here.
— C.Birde, 10/24
“Bee Tongue” — C.Birde, 9/24
Humm of a hundred
bees…
My garden is a mess…
Contentment lives
here.
— C.Birde, 10/24
Dressed
in green-moss velvet
I’ll drink soft rain,
limbs lifted toward
its falling.
— C.Birde, 8/24
Cracked open.
— C.Birde, 6/20
Awaken –
suddenly,
splashingly –
to that song
(despised),
that songster singing;
the alarm’s relentless
ringing
from the bedside as
(swiftly)
he departs
and addresses not
the wailing,
blaring
song.
Emerge.
Upward, surge
from watery warmth,
and rouse translucent
waves to tidal
lapping,
spilling,
slapping
over and past
the slipper tub’s
smooth sides
of porcelain
white.
Outward,
stretch;
extend one arm
(fingers streaming)
to reach and strike
(again!
again!)
the alarm’s
rigid,
buzzing,
boxlike
surface and silence
(at last!)
disharmony’s
jarring
blast.
Awake.
Fully wakened…
In blessed quiet,
become aware —
across the room —
of the calico’s cider
stare;
and —
beyond
the glistening rim
of the polished tub —
of the small dog
that deftly,
daintily dodged
the sluicing
flood pro-
duced.
— C.Birde, 4/20