The foothills
filled with mist
and the crest
wore a crown of trees
and the light shone
softly,
softly
while I roved
a violet
dream.
— C.Birde, 12/18
Violet — An Image
Heart Space — A Poem
Ring —
like a struck bell;
like a cup
emptied of all
its yesterdays —
in resounding vibration,
in clear invitation to
that sacred,
hollowed,
hallowed
heart space
within.
— C.Birde, 12/18
Illusion — An Image
Observed directly,
the fabric
of illusion
— like a dream —
ripples,
s l e w s,
slips…
— C.Birde, 12/18
Limits — A Poem
Concealing,
revealing in equal turns,
the length and breadth
of night extends
its reach,
paints the lonesome
oaks —
bereft of leaves —
in silence…
Feeling our way
to the edges of that
darkened,
incurious landscape —
heeding, perhaps,
the dormant promise
of dreams and rest and
contemplation —
we hold aloft spheres
of shivering,
self-limiting light,
fearful of what we might
discover.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Enticed — An Image
Desired or
not —
sheen and color
call attention,
while thorns
discourage
t
o
u
c
h
.
— C.Birde, 11/18
The Swans — A Poem
Four white bodies,
whiter
than Autumn snow;
sleek and blemishless
and smooth
as the far horizon;
extending,
reaching,
stretching,
and –
with each near-silent,
muscular stroke –
beating
brisk air
to cream.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Mistaken Identity — A Dream
Raul?
No. I don’t know any one by that name.
Yes, I’m certain.
Who said that…?
…but I don’t know any Raul…
He said what?
About…me?
Well, that’s embarrassing…
Sure, fine, I guess it’s flattering…a little.
But any way, you must have misheard…
Then he means someone else.
I’m already married.
Fine, fine. I’ll follow you, but only around the corner.
No. This is far enough.
Yes, I can hear him.
…
Good grief…who talks like that? Is he reciting sonnets?
Rhapsodizing? You’re being dramatic…
No, this is close enough.
He can see me just fine… from his pillar…above the crowd…
God. Look at him…
Listen to him…
Listen…
…
What?
No.
No, of course not.
I was not.
That’s ridiculous.
Besides, he doesn’t even recognize me.
I’m not the one he’s talking about.
I’m not the one he means.
I’m not the one.
…
I told you.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Conjuring Light — A Poem
Light
slips through our
grasp…
Each hour of each day —
paler, thinner,
more threadbare than
its yesterday.
Plumed
in solar flares,
our tongues regale each other
with half-remembered
tales of milder days —
songs of Crow and Centaurus,
and the Great Bear,
of the Herdsman
and his starry flock
spread across the night sky’s
vast backdrop.
Frost-touched,
we’ll pause together
at Winters’ gate and,
reminiscing,
conjure
light.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Separate Waters — A Dream
The bridge extends.
Below, to either side,
in frantic haste,
wide waters part.
We stride
in confidence,
reach the midpoint of the span
and cross beyond…
When,
in headlong rush,
the tides return,
frilled with crashing
foam…
His name lodged in my throat,
upon my lips;
in fear,
I cry aloud
for his steadying hand…
Out of reach…
beyond reach…
A fury of water collapses, collides,
consumes my voice, my limbs,
my life.
A thunder of water
separates.
A wall of water
divides.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Pace — An Image
Snail’s pace —
wonderfully
well suited
to
snail space.
≈
— C.Birde, 11/18
