“Each leaf
tells the story of the tree,”
she said,
“each feather,
the story of the bird.
With each word you speak
& path you choose,
you cast your own story
out into the world…”
A rustle stirred in her
green-sprouted heart.
She smiled, bent close, & whispered:
“But always & ever,
the choosing
is yours.”
— C.Birde, 10/20
These words, I whispered into the open door
of the hallowed, hollow tree:
“Open my eyes.
Sweeten my speech.
Soften my heart.
Gentle my hands.
Broaden my mind.
Strengthen my will.
Deepen my soul.
Remove my fear,
that I might better hear
your reply echo
throughout the elements
surrounding.”
And by “my”, I mean “our”;
and by “I”, I mean “we”.
— C.Birde, 10/20
“Gently, gently, gently.”
From Autumn’s house,
she called;
doors & windows
wide open flung.
“Your grasp –
so tight upon the latch –
restricts advancement
into
light.”
— C.Birde, 10/20
It’s not the same without you here.
I’m less inclined to sit and stare out
the open window
at the sweet-winged visitors amongst
bowed seedheads,
waiting for the words to find their way
through that oculus, transformed and
translated
upon the white page spread before my
fingertips.
I get up, instead, wander – shapeless,
aimless – into the kitchen and load
the dishwasher,
that dark and hungry box, like so many,
that must continually
be fed and filled with the mundane.
When I return, the empty chair remains.
Empty of –
you.
— C.Birde, 10/20
“You cannot pursue
that which is
beside you,
within you,
of you.”
She gentled each word
with a dose of sweet rain.
“You can only sit with it
& offer it
your whole
compassionate
heart.”
— C.Birde, 10/20
Sweet tang of autumn air,
cidery
cool enough to drink
through all the senses
Leaves fall like small fading
stars
to light the path ahead
forward into unknowing
I lift my cup to you in welcome,
dear heart,
and pour a second.
I have been
waiting.
— C.Birde, 10/20
Together,
apart.
We sit beneath
& within
the cool blue-green shade
of the great spruce tree,
with coffee &
grief &
glee,
& we feed all who come –
chipmunk & squirrel,
tufted titmouse,
jay & red-belly.
Hearts brimming,
undone,
we feed all who come.
Apart,
together.
My sister
& me.
— C.Birde, 10/20
They stand — all four of them — in a line;
shoulder to shoulder;
on green-grass sward in fading sunlight;
facing me…
No instruments in hand –
neither mandolin nor fiddle nor cello;
no guitar, no bass, no banjo…
Empty hands clasped together before them,
they stand — all four of them — in a line;
shoulder to shoulder;
on a green-grass sward in fading sunlight;
facing me…
Or is it a photo?
An antique square snapshot,
grown milky with age,
colors evaporating into a wriggle-edged white border
that frames them,
those four young men?
The lighting is wrong, the shadows off…
A dark circle pools at their feet,
conforming to no fixed source, natural or otherwise,
while simultaneously,
their cast shadows stretch from them,
toward me,
so long and lean and solid,
surely,
I should feel the weight of their touch,
heavy as silence…
— C.Birde, 10/20
Nightjars & Damselflies 