Duck the twining honeysuckle,
dripping with recent rain,
enter through the open gate
on two legs, four, or six,
on wings;
Let hearts be softened,
fears soothed,
hurts healed;
Leave all anger
and hardness behind
this pocket sanctuary,
to be swept away,
un-needed,
forgotten.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Clad
in admiralty blue,
rank dabbed and denoted
in white and black,
he clutches,
in an executioner’s grip,
the limp featherless form
still pinked with the breath
of recent life.
Cloaked
in delft and gray,
eyes bright with a
sunset captured,
she is pursued and scolded.
And I,
a witness apart,
must remind myself –
there is
no malice present,
nor joy
in the other’s suffering.
There are
no monsters
here.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Pink. Yellow. Lilac. Forget-Me-Not blue and tulip red. Brightly-colored chairs line the street’s edge like the flowers of spring. Each metal seat blooms on hollow tubular legs carefully curved and bent to provide support and a bit of bounce. Their backs are molded, fluted, and patterned with punch-outs. Parallel to both sidewalk and street, they are arranged over thick green grass with a casual grace. And though the street is wide, and the day is comfortable; though a gentle breeze stirs amongst the trees’ leaves and casts shadows into lazy movement; and though there is seating for plenty – a dozen times over – each chair, without exception, is empty.
Torsos press,
limbs entwine
and wrap,
crowns lean together,
whispering,
and
roots tangle —
in full
embrace.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Standing tall
on slim black legs,
talons pricking
aged granite,
the Mockingbird
flicks his tail,
cocks his head.
He follows my progress
with pearl-gray eye,
listens intently
when I speak.
And once
he has collected
my words,
my intent,
he parses and restates —
more perfectly,
more succinctly,
more beautifully —
in song.
— C.Birde, 5/15
So many steps. Never-ending. A sloping descent through an enclosed, featureless stairwell of smooth plaster walls, and smooth risers barely scuffed with use. Deeply-layered shadows are peeled away by a soft light of unknown origin.
I’ve lost count of the steps, how many I’ve taken; but this neither frustrates nor alarms. It’s an easy descent – my legs do not ache, my heart and lungs do not protest. One step after another, I follow the stairs further. Deeper. Ever downward. My footfalls echo and pulse.
At length, a faint glow of light blooms below, gilds the stair treads. At the base of the stairs is an open doorway. Beyond this, lies a large lake which seems to fall off and over the night sky’s horizon. Above the lake, casting its reflection over the water’s still surface, floats the moon – so full, so enormous, it consumes all that is visible from the doorway’s threshold.
Unable to proceed forward, I stand and marvel at the moon – it swims easily through both air and water, while both elements impede my own progress. The sky is far outside my earthbound reach, and the lake, though it reflects the moon so beautifully, seems to swirl beneath the surface with motes and particles of murky origin.
And then, I am thrust forward and out, propelled into the water. Someone has pushed me – I felt his hand pressed against the small of my back, the thrust of momentum. Arms out-flung, fingers grasping at the night air, toes searching for any foothold, I pitch forward. The moon’s fluid reflection ripples and breaks beneath my fall.
The lake receives me.
Kicking toward the surface, I emerge, sluicing water. The water is lovely – clear, comfortable, the perfect temperature. Sweet on my tongue. Buoyant. Supportive. There is nothing murky here. All is clear.
Through moonlight and water, I am bathed anew.
Whatever you may call him —
Arisaema,
Bog onion,
Brown dragon,
Indian or Wild turnip,
American Wake robin —
Jack
is
back.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Much is written
of rose-strewn paths;
but I prefer to
tread —
lightly, bare of foot —
the petals
dashed to ground
by recent rain
of the leaning cherry —
still pink,
still damp,
still fragrant.
A blushing robe
discarded;
while nearby,
tucked in switch and
bramble,
the catbirds’ songs
weave and flutter like
scattered, honeyed
light.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Is he aware? That I can hear him? That I stand alone, outside, in the dark, cobblestoned street? I see him in profile, seated in a small, tidy, featureless room, its walls and floor comprised of smooth plaster. The arched entry is doorless, nor is there glass in the similarly formed window. From my vantage, it seems the only furniture, the only adornment to the room, is the ladder-back chair he sits in; the only illumination is shed from a single candle on the windowsill. Warm light flickers, and shadows reach, grasp.
The chair he occupies is pressed up against the wall, just inside the doorway. He wears a collared, button-down shirt, linen pants crisply pleated, and a dark fedora. And he speaks. To someone beyond my line of view? To the empty room itself? His words punctuate the heavy air: “She’s smarter, stronger. Braver. Bolder…” Logically, matter-of-factly, impersonally — he states all the ways he prefers her to me.
As if I had ever been blissfully unaware of his feelings.
As if his every action had not always, ever, betrayed his opinion.
As if it could not ever, possibly have hurt.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Dogwood petals
filtering light
in cutwork pattern —
confirmation of
Spring.
— C.Birde, 5/17
