Constant — A Poem


“Linden Light” — C.Birde, 9/18



if you must

exchange your

limits —


self-fashioned —

for broader


Ivy embraces

the picket fence

and moss creeps

over stone.

Slow patter of rain

carves its own

sweet route.


if you must,

if you wish.

But never forget —

small as I am —

that I have always

loved you.


— C.Birde, 9/18


Three, Unbound — A Dream


“Wall” — C.Birde, 9/18


The three women stand – barefoot, shoulder-to-shoulder – before a mammoth, trapezoidal wall, a plaster expanse the deep, teal-blue of an undisturbed lagoon. Their hair tumbles, unrestrained, about their shoulders, cascades over the night-sky robes skimming their bodies. Arms uplifted, the sleeves of their robes slipping past their elbows, past their smooth forearms and biceps, they press, press, press their palms against the wall, against their own cast shadows. When, smiling, they tip their heads back, their laughter is fluid, effortless joy — the sound of blackbirds released into an unbound sky.


— C.Birde, 9/18



Elusion — A Poem


“Elusion” — C.Birde, 9/19



interrupted —


neither to rest

nor dreams.

Ache of hips and

roll over —



Eyes tight-squeezed.

Tongue pressed

to teeth

in a jaw ill-



the blanket’s heap,

time’s passage,

marked in increments

blue and ghostly.

Words and worries




in looping chorus

repeat —

— repeat —

Until sleep becomes

the dream.


— C.Birde, 9/19



Schism — A Poem

Little Hawk Feather.png

“Little Hawk” — C.Birde, 9/18


Two weeks ago, three weeks early, he said goodbye.

A day after the incident –

Pale streak of feathers with talons, outstretched and efficient

Tangle of cries and silence caught within deer netting and ripening tomatoes

The scene unfolding beyond the bay windows, as, unwilling, I observed and thought (disjointedly) of Casablanca, the words re-working in my head

“Of all the birds, in all the yards, in all the world – the hawk has taken mine”

As I thought (unkindly), while running from the house in futile effort, of the multitude of House Sparrows whose numbers could bear thinning, my cries of negation to stop, avert, reverse the course of events and pluck those yellow claws from that small gray breast and separate the two – Little hawk (Sharp Shinned? Coopers? he will not tell me) from Gray Catbird – to unwind time and heal the wound…

Above me, despite me, beyond my reach and will and pleas, Little hawk wheeled away with his prize – young parent to this year’s only fledgling.


The burning bush, previously a-shiver with activity, is still.

The pergola, with its unrestrained clematis vines, remains empty.

The container of raisins sits on the counter, untouched, unshared.

Two weeks ago, three weeks early, he said goodbye —

my small avian friend of untold years —

A day after the incident.

Next year, next spring — so far off —

will reveal if he’ll return



— C.Birde, 9/18


“Catbird” — C.Birde, 9/18


ID-iom — A Dream


“Graveyard” — C.Birde, 9/18


“…it’s like…”


A sourceless voice,

mild as spring,

spare as winter.


“…scattering breadcrumbs…”


They appear in hand,

tiny, pale fragments,

brittle as stars.


“…in a graveyard.”


The landscape shifts,

the monuments resolve –

tall, dome-shouldered,




— C.Birde, 9/4/18