Irma, Afield — A Dream

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“Afield” — C.Birde, 4/18


How long has it been  since I’ve seen her? Twenty years? Thirty? Forty? Yet there she stands — Irma. In her lilac house dress, patterned all over with small sprigs of flowers. In her flat, sensible, Mary-jane style shoes — scuffed and comfortable. In her nude compression stockings — rolled beneath her knees and creased in folds about her ankles. She is small and compact – moreso than I recall – and stands with her small hands neatly folded over the curve of her belly.  Coiffed and snowy ringlets peep from the band of her netted, pillbox hat. Oyster-colored cat-framed glasses perch on the bridge of her nose, connected — one temple to the other — by a strand of silver beads that drapes loosely down the back of her neck.

Most of all, though — most of all — Irma smiles. A pure, honest, dimpling smile that lifts her cheeks against the lower rims of her glasses and transforms her eyes into twin, up-side-down smiles.

She stands;,a solitary figure amidst a great stretch of rolling lawn – a graveyard that has not yet received internments. Surrounding her – uniformly and purposely spaced – ancient, solitary trees lift their age-roughened branches skyward. Pale spring light glides like youth through the trees’ slow-budding limbs.

And Irma – hands clasped; standing in her own shadow; light glancing off her glasses’ lenses – Irma smiles.


— C.Birde, 4/18


Forest in Hand — A Poem


“Forest” — C.Birde, 4/18


Back bowed

to warming sun;

knees pressed

to earth –

withdraw each

tender seedling

from crisp,


leaf litter;

tug at that


at each pale,


stem and root

until –

unwilling –

the fibers


Each pliant,

wrinkled leaf

a world

of innate


One hundred.

Two hundred.


To right,

moving headfirst

down the

parent tree,

Nuthatch watches,


while Chickadee,

to left,

muses over

nest sites.


forest in hand.



of life


in a small,


of youngling




— C.Birde, 4/18


Confirmation — A Poem


“Maple Bloom” — C.Birde, 4/18


A pair of crows –

fragments of night,

dark clad and

shining –

pluck the maple’s

red confetti


Pass below.

Scatter robins

through last year’s

fallen leaves.

Bound and bonded

to earth,

accept the drift

of sooty corvid voices,

of scarlet petals –

blessings of slow



— C.Birde, 4/18