Near
the stop sign’s
scarlet flare,
our feet
in a depth
of green,
green
grass
Patient –
sensing,
feeling,
recollect-
ing steps –
we stand
& wait for
the sweep
of Autumn’s
mournful
wings
to p a s s.
— C.Birde, 9/22
I could sleep
away the season’s end,
head upon this pillow
of bronze ferns
& oak leaves turned
the color of doeskin,
Cheek pressed
to this still-green bed
of moss as you sing
against my ear
Please, let me remain
undisturbed until
the heat has passed
Though this means
I must wait
another year to hear
your song.
— C.Birde, 9/22