“Lonicera Sempervirens – Native Honeysuckle” — C.Birde, 7/16
Planted to tempt hummingbirds,
native honeysuckle climbs and clambers
up over the garden arch,
wriggles amongst the privet,
stretches and tumbles unrestrained
in quest of sunlight.
Scarlet success on all counts.
— C.Birde, 7/16
“Lonicera Sempervirens — Native Honeysuckle Tumble” — C.Birde, 7/16
“Summer Night” — C.Birde, 7/16
Long has Orion
slipped below the horizon.
The dog stars run loose
over the vast dark sky.
Crickets strum
barbed legs in song.
And I lie awake,
considering
the heat-washed nights
of Summer.
— C.Birde, 7/16
Neglect shrouds the bungalow. Abandonment. Crouched at the hill’s crest, the structure is slowly engulfed by a silent chaos of overgrowth and tangled tree shadow. From dark unpaned windows, beneath low-hanging eaves, the house peers vacantly down the hill. The air of neglect extends beyond the bungalow in a radial arc. Sere, unmown grass slopes down and away from its front door. Pale seed heads nod and bend, dip and shush with wind. Wildflowers, their petals blanched of color, float over the grassy sea like moths. And, standing chest-deep amidst this lawn-turned-meadow, are four scrawny bears. Arranged at equidistant points in a rough square, their coats are lank and straw-brown, and they are heartbreakingly thin. Their dark eyes consider me where I stand, far below, and then, as if they are a single unit, they begin to bend slightly at their wrists and ankles, flex at hips and shoulders in a pulsating fashion. They remain, otherwise, rooted in their paws, standing in the derelict lawn, staring. Eyes as wide and dark as the bungalow above them, grass and fur commingling, they stand and stare and pulse.
“Four Bears” — C.Birde, 7/16
“Reservoir Haze” — C.Birde, 7/16
Haze thickened air
stretches over morning’s tender hours,
accompanied by the ratchet and whir
of cicada chorus —
promises of heat to come.
— C.Birde, 7/16
“Reservoir Bridge” — C.Birde, 7/16
The benefits of casual gardening,
detailed in small passages –
Mystery squash,
casting tendrils toward the Burning bush,
abloom with ulterior motive.
The weed pail
filling,
before the work is done.
Rogue tomatoes,
erupting from loamy beds
and window baskets,
pushing aside rhubarb leaves.
Fireflies and ladybugs,
and slim-limbed mantises,
and beatific bees.
Queen Anne’s lace,
tatting the yard and
adorned in cabbage moths.
Patches of shade,
rotating about the house,
cool refuge from the sun’s eye.
Leeks’ heads
nodding heavy crowns;
bindweed
twining and trumpeting
Lady’s thumbs,
tickling catmint;
Black eyed Susans
studying Swiss chard.
The small yard
taking shape under
Nature’s guiding hand.
Near-motionless rabbits
nibbling sweet clover;
quick chipmunks
excavating neat holes
beneath tonic lavender;
and everywhere,
everywhere,
the stir and song
of birds.
— C.Birde, 7/17
“Squash Among the Tomatoes” — C.Birde, 7/16
Though I try to assure retention, my dreamless state continues. It is as if I kneel at the water’s edge of dreams, shins and the tops of my feet pressed against damp and pebbled banks. Leaning forward, I peer into that fluid body to see what darting minnows, what tadpoles and frogs and crayfish might live and move within. Each flash of movement that draws my attention is quickly interrupted, disturbed — a shift in light alters reflections; waters’ surface ripples with wind; something stirs below to send up obscuring plumes of silt. And if I am fortunate enough to slip my hand into that reservoir — slowly — and close fingers about some small, mercurial thing — gently — it eludes my grasp. Withdrawing my hand, I find it has escaped as certainly as the water streaming from my spread fingers.
“Dreamless Waters” — C.Birde, 7/16
“Wildflower Bouquet” — C.Birde, 7/16
Yes. Let’s pause a bit,
and while you bow to inhale
the roses’ breath,
I’ll gather Fennel and Fleabane
and frothing Queen Anne’s Lace
to weave together —
a Summer Crown
to set upon your brow.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Little Wren
builds a nest
outside the window’s frame
within a house
suspended,
pendant,
beneath the sheltering
azalea.
Industrious,
he stuffs it full,
a perfection
of twigs and sticks
collected and thrust
through a hole
cut just large enough
to permit his entry.
Bold creature,
far larger in spirit
than his diminutive frame
suggests,
he sings the yard’s
perimeter,
claims it as his own
with staccato notes
hurled upon the air
in rapid punctuation.
Little king —
I am an earthbound peasant,
well pleased to occupy
the earth beneath
your aerial
realm.
— C.Birde, 7/17
“House Wren’s House” — C.Birde, 7/17
“Clouds of Dream” — C.Birde, 7/17
My dreams have taken on the aspect of clouds. I move within their certain uncertainty, the corner of my eye smudged with image, and emerge trailing vapors. Atoms of recall cling, but the whole vanishes, swallowed upon waking. And I am left to wonder and scrounge and rue the dream’s reabsorption.
“Goldenrod” — C.Birde, 7/16
Blazing July sun
flings spears of heat and light
as it advances through the garden.
— C.Birde, 7/16
“Coneflowers” — C.Birde, 7/16
Nightjars & Damselflies 