Moon Door — A Dream

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“Moon Door” — C.Birde, 2/17

Slate stepping stones lead up the grassy hill to a fieldstone arch. Flowering vines climb and tumble over the stones in green-leafed embrace. A heavy wooden door is set within the arch; which is older – door or stones – is difficult to determine. The stones, plucked from the surrounding hillside, are worn; their serrated edges smoothed. But the door, too, has aged and hardened. Once ligneous in nature, the door’s brass-bound boards have absorbed the elements and now mimic the solidity of their frame.

Just above the hill, just beyond the closed door, as if waiting to be invited in or to welcome and entertain, the full moon hovers. It is enormous in size and brilliance, hung against the immense, black back-drop of star-pricked night. The moon’s calling card of light slips beneath the door’s crack, limns its edges. And, at eye level, a small, crescent moon cut from the door’s face, traps and holds the moon’s glow.

Treebeard, in Memoriam — Images

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“Treebeard, 2016” — C.Birde, 2/17

It is with a heavy heart that I bear news of Treebeard’s passing. He was felled Wednesday, February 22, 2017. Treebeard was lifelong resident of Greenwood Cemetery, Boonton, and quite possibly, he had made his home there prior to the Cemetery’s establishment in 1876. We became acquainted in his twilight years, twenty-six years ago, and I knew him to be a patient, generous, and forgiving soul. He had seen much in his nearly two centuries. After the loss of a major limb, many years before our first meeting, he sheltered countless families of squirrel’s and birds and insects, without complaint. Concurrent with this limb’s loss, he accepted a vining growth which leant him his moniker. He rooted and grew, suffered and succored. His was a fine example to follow. Though his stump remains to mark his place, I will miss his presence — the green shade of his crown, the length and all-encompassing reach of his shadow; I will miss the song of wind through his leaves, the creak and groan of his massive branches. Rest well, Treabeard. In lieu of flowers, please plant a tree, or nurture and appreciate those you share your life with, whether daily or in passing.

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“Treebeard’s Stump” — C.Birde, 2/17

Treebeard’s stump is an impressive 60+ inches across.

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“Treebeard’s Midsection” — C.Birde, 2/17

Treebeard’s midsection, measuring over 140 inches in circumference.



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“Treebeard’s Cavity” — C.Birde, 2/17

The massive cavity that, doubtless, lead to his undoing.



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“Treebeard’s Remains” — C.Birde, 2/17

The trunk of Treebeard lays stacked in Greenwood Cemetery’s center.


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“Treebeard 2016” — C.Birde




Blades & Branches — A Poem

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“Branches” — C.Birde, 2/17


the grind

and grumble

of saw and blade


Air parts,

earth trembles;





heartwood —



and chewed

in joyless


Sentinel Maples

or Evergreen Guard,

Merriam or

Addis Oak,


or Treebeard –

When next I walk,

whose absence


I mark?


— C.Birde, 2/17


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Grotto — A Dream


“Grotto” — C.Birde, 2/17


Thick grass soughs and whispers about the hole’s rim. Time and erosion have peeled back its rough edges, and, set within this misshapen maw, is a spiral staircase that descends down and down, corkscrewing into the earth.

Fingers clutching, toes seeking purchase, I scale the stair’s exterior and lower myself by careful degrees into the hollow. Slowly, light fades to shadowy dark, only to soon bloom once more in vague luminescence.

The staircase accesses a small grotto. Moisture slicks sloped earthen walls, drips from the vaulted ceiling. A body of dark water sings and ripples with falling droplets, and, protruding from that subterranean pool, are small hump-backed mounds of earth. Fuscia and teal-blue vegetation tangle over those scattered islets.

Humid air abounds here; thick, warm, and still. Stepping off the landing, I sink into spongy undergrowth. Leaves and moss wriggle and curl between my toes. My shoes rest on the landing where I have stepped out of them. Sitting amidst the foliage, I pull my shoes back onto my damp feet. A simple task; absurdly difficult — right shoe on left foot; left shoe on right; laces knot, come undone, pull entirely free of their eyelets.

While struggling with this mundane task, I catch furtive movement from the corner of my eye. There, pressed within the shadows of the grotto’s walls, a man steels toward me. Opposite him, approaching through twining vines and fuscia leaves, creeps a young woman with a long, dark ponytail. They circle from opposite directions in a predatory manner. With a cell phone, the woman snaps random photos of my failed attempts at shoe-lacing.

Hurriedly, I stuff my feet into my shoes, tangle the laces together. Turning, feet pounding, I dash up the stairs, spiral up and out. Emerging above ground, the air is cool against my skin, fresh and sweet to taste. The green world spreads endlessly in all directions. Blue skies spill overhead. Stepping off the spiral stair’s landing, I trod upon a pair of socks — bright yellow, patterned with black and white, blue and red. My step sends the socks off the landing. Slowly, gently, they drift through the air, twist in unseen breeze. Down and down, like twin rays of sunlight, they fall. Down through the hole in the earth, swallowed from sight in the damp grotto below.

Shadows — A Poem

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“Shadow” — C.Birde, 2/17


Whether kind

or cruel,


or hindrance,


or self-serving,


or hard-hearted,

Whether we include

or isolate,

build bridges

or erect walls,

We experience mortality

in union

with all


And the shadows

we cast




— C.Birde, 2/17



The Tower — A Dream


“The Tower” — C.Birde, 2/17

The tower rises upward, all but consumes vision. A vertical column of sun-warmed stones, earth’s worn bones, carefully snugged into place one atop another. Old beyond reckoning. Smoothed and shaped by time and wind and weather. Hummocks of turf girdle the tower’s base – grass and weeds and wildflowers woven together in dense matts. On the tower’s North side, a burden of ivy, with stems as thick as a man’s wrist. Vining tendrils curl and clamber, sink fine root hairs into cracks and fissures. Wind moves through the ivy, stirs glossy leaves; they rub their edges together in whispers.

An arched window marks the tower’s East side – single dark, unblinking eye, just beyond the ivy’s reach. On the window’s stone sill rests a shallow bowl. It gleams white against the interior’s dark throat. So near the edge. So high up. A careless breath or nudge could send it tumbling. Out and down. Dashed against the tower’s defenses. Rain of porcelain shards. All splinters and dust…

But no. The bowl rests, unmoving, on its ledge of stone. Ivy stirs and stretches. And the tower lifts itself and yawns against the expansive blue sky.