Swim
through the maple’s
slip-edged,
ripening leaves
and emerge –
balanced, bobbing,
pollen-flocked –
on the cool air’s
shoals.
Tread –
in full embrace –
softened, spreading
light.
Linger in the greening.
And with abandon,
dive –
into burgeoning
May.
— C.Birde, 5/17
I will wear velvet —
chartreuse and supple.
I will arch and extend
up
through draping fog.
I will be lyric
mystery.
— C.Birde, 4/17
Walk with me
beneath the bud-tipped spruce –
we’ll lift our hands to collect
the crows’ bewildered calls,
still hoarse
with the memory of
recent snow.
We’ll bend to sip sweet rain
from crocuses and watch
the ferns’ fronds slow unfurling.
Inhale, with me, the lilacs’ promise.
While Mourning Cloaks –
clad in lush dark velvet –
flit and glide about us,
we’ll decipher their
orphic patterns.
For a moment,
we’ll remember;
for a moment,
we’ll forget.
— C.Birde, 4/17
Please — don’t ask me to dance. Don’t persist when, politely, I decline. Don’t approach me on this moonless night, in this quiet, wooded glade, and dismiss my protests, pull me onto the parquet dance floor.
You don’t understand. I don’t wish to be cajoled or encouraged. I have no desire to be shamed. I lack your surety, your confidence. Can you not see, how my left leg gives beneath me? How it cannot bear my weight? Do my hands not speak of desperation? Certainly, my fingers – stiff and rigid as they are – must bite at the tender flesh at your neck and shoulders, clinging, grasping?
But no – you don’t seem to notice. You weave over the dance floor. Your scarlet shoes brush the wooden, geometric patterns with your light step. You are ease of motion, liquid in style and confidence. You are unburdened by my gracelessness, my awkward gait and dragging, enfeebled limb.
And when, discomfited, I try to make light of the situation – of myself and my incompetence; when I call my efforts “flop-footed” — you dismiss my attempts at humor. Gravely, you pull me across the parquet floor.
On this moonless night.
In this wooded glade.
Beneath witness, speechless trees.
Trillium waited
in the garden’s corner.
She smoothed the rain from her brow,
shook out her frock,
and —
in her own time,
in her own fashion —
joined
the
dance.
— C.Birde, 4/17
Stop,
listen –
don’t insist she
shout for your
attention.
You are one.
Her vast rivers flow
through your constricted veins;
Her mountains comprise
your bones,
grown porous;
Her forests guide
your too-shallow breath;
Those wild and untamed places
that reside in your
diminished
heart,
are hers.
Don’t make her shout —
when her mouth is full
of flowers
and her breath
perfumed,
when her touch is
a caress
of budding green.
Bend your ear to hear
her song issue
from the messenger
throats of birds.
Place your feet in her steps,
against her heart’s
steadying beat.
Cherish and protect her.
Remember yourself.
Revive and awaken.
Do not insist
she shout.
— C.Birde, 4/17
It stands, hoofs-deep, in a field of mud. A young black and white pig. Its hide stretched too-tightly over its scrawny frame. It fixes me with a beady eye, and I’m not the least bit surprised when it addresses me – in clear, succinct English. After all, mere moments ago, this very same pig had been a gargantuan earthworm, plowing through the muddy field like a subterranean marlin.
“Are you going to feed me?” the pig demands vexedly. Its voice swells to fill the cavern, gets caught against the shadow-filled ceiling overhead. Thick mud covers its large, flat snout, evidence that it has been rooting through the field in search of food.
But I’m not here to feed the pig – I didn’t even know there was a pig down here. I’ve come to feed the cats.
“Oh, of course. Can’t forget to feed the cats.” The pig hunches its bladed shoulders and snorts sarcastically. “Precious cats,” it mutters.
Skirting the edge of the furrowed and deeply rutted field, I edge toward a shabby green shack where the cat food is stored. The pig’s gaze follows me, his squinty stare vaguely unsettling. Uncertain how he’ll react, I offer to give him some of the cat food.
The pig grunts with indignation. “I suppose cat food is better than no food,” he remarks archly.
I ignore his tone, attribute his crankiness to hunger. After tossing several handfuls of cat food to him, I watch as, snout down in the mud, he devours every bit. Greedily, hungrily, completely.
Giddy Spring,
when all Nature
conspires
in song,
and courtship,
and joined, jubilant
SHOUT!
— C.Birde, 4/17
Spears of forsythia throwing light,
Daffodils’ heraldic shout.
Canaries and warblers
and precious metal finches —
melodic color caught in song.
Bellies and fevers,
jaundice and joy.
Color of yield signs, double lines,
#2 pencils and school buses;
of taxis and Playbills,
raincoats and wellingtons.
Bright topaz and citrine and
slow-trapping amber.
Too-short hectic flash
of sulphurs and swallowtails.
Industrious bees, pollen, and honey.
Primary – and companion –
color of Spring.
Color of teapots and lemons,
beaten eggs, butter, and cake.
Color of zinc paint,
slope-shouldered haystacks,
of sunflowers
and skewwhiff bedrooms.
Bold, pouring sunshine
and pre-wish dandelions.
Dilute color of stars and moons
and soft candlelight;
of delight and wonder.
Yellow.
— C.Birde, 4/17
Rain drips from
Beech and Oak,
Hickory and Maple;
patters and splashes
against the creek’s
swollen back;
Frogs join in
hiccuped song.
Loveletters
to
A
p
r
i
l.
— C.Birde,4/17