Hall’s End — A Dream

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“Paper” — C.Birde, 4/19

 

Follow her –

that narrow mouse-

gray woman clad

in linen white,

adrift and drifting

down the long and

dim-choked hall

papered all in

dusky gold and

stroked with

branching

flowers.

Pause –

as she applies bone-

white knuckles

(tap tap tap)

to each arc-topped

dark-polished door

along the hallway’s

throat.

Watch –

the bend and slope

of shadows leap

(burning, sputtering)

from the white-wax

stick she holds aloft

in its bright brass

holder.

(tap tap tap)

Her knuckles

rap.

Observe –

some doors remain

tight shut, impervious

to her knock;

some inward swing

and open on clotted dark

and pale hands reach,

accept neat-folded

sheets stacked between

the lean woman’s

forearm and

ribs.

Continue –

down the hall’s long

maw and to its end

where three shallow

dark wood steps

ascend to meet

a small lopsided

door;

here,

the woman taps

(scratch scratch scratch).

her index finger’s

neat-trimmed nail

and the door

(the door!)

(that small lopsided

dark wood door!)

flies open in a flash

and frames within

its toothless

crooked grin

a woman

(diminutive, aglow!)

of floss-pale hair

and dress.

Gasp –

but she has gone,

has snatched a set

of handkerchief-

sized sheets from

the stooped gray

woman’s outstretched

hand and darted

back within behind

the small door’s

closed and softly

mocking

face.

(But wait!)

(Oh please!)

(Come

back!)

 

 

— C.Birde, 4/19

 

Reign — A Poem

Reign.jpg

“Reign” — C.Birde, 4/19

 

Arriving in decibels…

in treetop tremor

of birdsong;

in leaf and bud’s

slow creep –

dusted prismatic–

toward full-throated

green refrain;

in skies –

by turns –

glass blue,

then churned

orchestral gray;

in scattered petals’ –

cherry, crabapple –

concentric drift.

Crowned.

Decreed.

Embraced.

Reign.

 

— C.Birde, 4/19

 

Overwhelmed — A Dream

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“Blue Pick Up” — C.Birde, 4/19

 

Brand new.

Gleaming metallic

cobalt blue.

Huge.

Need a step-ladder

to climb into

the cab,

then swallowed up

inside.

Steering wheel,

too big to wrap fingers

around.

The dashboard

overwhelms –

glowing instrument

cluster;

winking lights;

scrolling message

screen.

Buttons and

      knobs and

      toggle switches.

Toobigtoobigtoobig.

Can’t.

Nope.

“Sure you can.”

Easy for him

to say.

He’s huge.

Six feet?

Seven?

Overalls and

cap.

Name stitched

in red over

his heart.

What

does he know

about who

can do

what?

“First thing you do,”

he says,

“is check

your mirrors.”

Don’t know how

“I’ll walk ‘round.

Tell me when you

see me.”

Flash

of white sleeve

spied

in the driver’s side

mirror.

Top of cap’s

blue-cloth button appears

in rearview.

Ginger beard

sighted

in passenger’s.

Back again from

circumnavigation,

he leans elbows on

the door’s edge.

“Geez…. “ he says,

shakes his head.

“Your mirrors

are way

off.”

Great.

“Here.

I’ll show you how

to adjust

them.”

Thank

you?

 

— C.Birde, 4/19

Flame & Thunderheads — A Dream

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“Sequins” — C.Birde, 4/19

 

 

“You’ll evoke Andromeda.”

She stands

on the threshold –

neither in nor

out –

and speaks

with warning,

disapproval,

disdain.

She,

with the tossing sea

at her back

and in her eyes.

She,

clad in the blue

of a glacier’s heart.

Her opinion

should not

matter;

yet her words –

her judgment –

wriggle and wrest

their way

inside.

I look

at the dress –

tiers of fringe and

beads and

sequins winking

with promise;

the color of a sunset

blushing;

set alongside

shoes and scarf

of pewter;

arranged

on the white bedspread

like thunderheads

and flame.

And I think –

with a silent, secret

ache –

that evoking

Andromeda

might be

just the

thing.

 

— C.Birde, 4/19