Auctioneer — A Poem

Screenshot_2019-05-22-10-15-46~2.png

“Home” — C.Birde, 5/19

 

Each year,

in out-sized voice,

he makes his

declaration;

small, bold auctioneer

rapidly proclaiming

his fine qualities

and wares –

twig-and-stick

nest sites

of considerable

envy.

Yet,

when the song

has threaded through

privet and azalea,

when negotiations

are exchanged,

decisions made

and settled —

despite my hopes,

my efforts to

accommodate —

another site is —

doubtlessly,

regrettably —

selected.

 

— C.Birde, 5/19

 

 

Sweet Tempest — A Dream

Tempest.jpeg

“Sweet Tempest” — C.Birde, 5/19

 

 

Remember?

Following her?

Obediently?

Without question?

The path she laid,

so overgrown…

so dense and thick

and muddied to near

impossibility…

Impassability…

Struggling…

Onward…

Ever onward…

Until it split…

There –

where she chose

the dark and lightless

fork that curved down

and underground –

another way…

Aboveground.

A tangle, still,

of roots exposed

and vining growth.

Its own struggle,

true;

but one that lead,

ultimately,

here

to this cozy place

cradled within rolling

hillside,

snugged within green

meadow.

That lead, ultimately,

to him.

Stand together –

side-by-side,

shoulder-to-shoulder –

in this place of solace.

Look beyond

the triptych windows —

the meadow’s verdure

shines against

the sky’s brooding gray.

Approaching rain

cannot blunt

such happiness,

such contentedness.

Unless…

Until…

The horizon boils

with looming storm…

No simple tumult

of thunderheads, this;

a fierce display of

fuchsia

pink and

tangerine

that hovers –

stationary, yet roiling –

in the distance.

Slowly,

it approaches,

expands

unfolds,

consumes

the sky in violence and

agitation.

As it nears,

the very air turns

intensely sweet,

sugary to taste.

From billowing clouds

of pink and plum,

a lance of lightning –

brilliant,

frightening,

scorching

the air to burnt-sugar —

strikes the cherry tree,

reduces limbs abloom

and trunk to chars.

Understand –

like that bright bolt –

in brilliant flash

of insight…

Those preceding years

of dutiful adherence,

the sugar-pink

obediences

must be

abandoned,

discarded,

surrendered.

Hurriedly,

gather them up,

hurl them without

to churning wind

that lifts and tosses

each offering

down the grassy slope,

where –

one

two

three

four –

each is consumed

in holy fire.

Such relief

to have retained so little,

to be free of danger.

Such dread

for those who yet carry

so much,

whom this sweet storm

will undoubtedly

and utterly

devour.

 

— C.Birde, 5/19

 

At Last — A Poem

IMG_20190508_121248_011.jpg

“Catbird Seat” — C.Birde, 5/19

 

Returned

– at last –

that sweet-voiced

family.

Descendants.,

all.

Clad in morning

coats and caps,

feathered gray.

Now,

I will put away

– at last –

winter’s bleak

attire,

remove my heart

from safeguarded

place,

return it

– at last –

to its nestspace

betwixt my ribs.

At last.

 

— C.Birde, 5/19