Native Honeysuckle — Images

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“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


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“Lonicera Sempervirens — Native Honeysuckle Tumble” — C.Birde, 7/16


Summer’s Night — A Poem




“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,


the heat-washed nights

of Summer.

— C.Birde, 7/16





Four Bears — A Dream

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.

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“Four Bears” — C.Birde, 7/16

Casual Gardening — A Poem

The benefits of casual gardening,

detailed in small passages –


Mystery squash,

casting tendrils toward the Burning bush,

abloom with ulterior motive.


The weed pail


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;


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,


the stir and song

of birds.


— C.Birde, 7/17



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“Squash Among the Tomatoes” — C.Birde, 7/16

Dreamlessness, Week #2 — A Truth

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.


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“Dreamless Waters” — C.Birde, 7/16


Wildflower Bouquet — An Image

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“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


Wren’s Realm — A Poem

Little Wren

builds a nest

outside the window’s frame

within a house



beneath the sheltering



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


he sings the yard’s


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



— C.Birde, 7/17

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“House Wren’s House” — C.Birde, 7/17


Dreamlessness — A Truth


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“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.