Ice-O-Lation — A Dream

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“Ice-O-Lation” — C.Birde, 12/19

 

Don’t

look up.

Not here,

at the top of the world,

in this place

of isolation,

of endless night and

boundless snow,

in this roofless hut

of stone entirely open

to unbroken

night.

Don’t look up.

Bear no witness

to the floes of white ice

that define the sky’s

concave curve,

those bergs and glaciers

arranged

aloft

afloat

around that great,

enormous bolt

fastened above…

to…

what?

Hide your seeking,

searching,

perplexed,

bewildered eyes

behind your fingers’

weave.

And for heaven’s sake,

for logic’s sake,

don’t look

up.

 

— C.Birde, 12/19

 

 

Interruption — A Dream

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“Interruption” — C.Birde, 12/19

 

Blue. White. Green.

Sky and clouds.

Rolling hills and lawn and trees.

These three brilliant, dazzling colors

dominate, as far as the eye can see.

To the right,

stroked between heaven and earth,

a long, low white house, modern and

featureless but for horizontal slabs

of black reflective glass

stretched like unspooled, undeveloped

film along the length of its recumbent

form.

From this structure’s back protrudes –

like the sweep of eyelet bridal train –

a semicircular deck of wood,

white, as well, but of a faded, ashen shade,

its brilliance muted, bleached

away.

And she, me, I.

The interruption.

Standing amidst this color scheme –

serene blue and white and green;

in striped, knee-high socks of every hue –

purple, pink, pale-yellow, orange, and

chartreuse;

one hand holds a bar of soap –

lavender-scented,

lavender-paper wrapped,

lavender, in both tint and tinge.

Standing there,

breeze gently lifting the hair

from our shoulders as we break the bar

in two and slip a brittling half into each sock’s

pulled-high, ribbed, fine-woolen

cuff.

I, me, she –

the lone bright-colored slash of verticality

in the entire placid,

tri-hued,

reclining,

scene.

 

— C.Birde