Unrestricted, vernal light

pours through bay windows’

oblique angles…

Alights in canary-yellow

flowers caught,

arranged

mid-flight at the breakfast

table’s center …

Light laps wide floorboards

of polished, honeyed oak;

wainscoted walls of ocher…

And, at last,

splashes up upon a board

in the corner of that low-

paneled wall that emits

(listen!)

a scritch-scratch-scritch

(behind, within)

of something trapped,

hidden,

concealed away

from such profuse display

of gilding…

The inset section trembles,

shivers, shifts, glides back

upon itself into the wall,

reveals a hollow space

that holds a child…

A child who, in turn, holds

a pale fluff of smallish kitten

(rabbit?)

snug against her sternum…

Who looks up, surprised,

to be rescued at long last,

released from confinement

(days, months, years?)

blinking darkness from

wide eyes.

— C.Birde, 4/22

Side-by-side-side,

three doors reside deep-

set in the flock-papered

wall –

     charcoal,

     green,

     scarlet;

each framed in carved

white painted wood.

Open –

     slowly –

the charcoal door…

descend a shaft

of cinderblocks &

open-tread stairs

where below –

thickly wreathed

in coiling smoke –

a rust-&-iron cauldron

of daunting girth

bubbles unattended,

waiting,

     waiting to be stirred…

Back upstairs,

the green door waits…

creep down to find

a bright potting shed

where two cruel men

shift sharpened gazes

from a downcast girl

(she trowels dark earth

into cracked clay pots,

her denim overalls

streaked in the same);

in gleeful anticipation,

they seize upon their

new target with words

deriding & laughter

scraping up the stairway

(under the unseen

spider’s nest)…

Away,

     away –

& firmly close the door.

One remains,

one only –

a shining scarlet mystery

waiting in plain sight –

unaddressed,

unapproached,

unaltered.

All potential wittingly

ignored.

— C.Birde, 3/22

Improbable box of peculiar dimension

(larger within than without)

& covered in plush fuchsia velvet

Upon lifting the lid

(which doubles as inset tray),

see, set deep within,

a turntable with LP rotating

r o t a t i n g

Lift the record up & out

Tilt it so light catches

& runs along the arc of grooves

incised upon its surface

Note, with some dismay,

that the wider, ungrooved rim slopes

& wriggles across

those tight concentric rings of song

(doubtless interruption)

& arcs toward the cardboard core

where the artist’s name is stamped:

L e d   Z e p p e l i n

Sudden undeniable urge to hear

that singular song incised upon the vinyl

Place the record back to spinning

Drop the needle,

see it skip & slide across the grooveless rim

(soundless, songless)

to bump & hiss against the printed core

Again

a g a i n

Fruitless effort

Reset the tonearm to its resting place

Return the improbable box-lid-tray

(smaller without than within)

What’s this?

Resting, now, in the tray’s concavity,

a fabric-wrapped-something that,

upon the freeing of its cloth,

is revealed to be nothing less than

the aviator sunglasses of

musician,

songwriter,

multi-instrumentalist,

& record producer extraordinaire

J i m m y P a g e.

Delighted, hold them cradled in hand

as the improbable & unexpected gift

(treasure)

that they are.

— C.Birde, 11/21