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
Little Dog Walks — A Poem
Author: Carrie Birde
Crickets’ Song — A Poem
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
Glove — A Dream
I wore,
on my right hand,
a glove of cicadas –
glittering,
shimmering,
whirring in patterns
improbable…
A glove of dialogue,
& movement,
& transformation
undeniable…
And when I tried
to release my hand,
my fingers,
of those shrill insects,
they clicked
& chittered
& shifted
& sang;
with buzzing intent,
they bit
& stung;
endured as one;
would not be
shaken off or free,
denied or dislodged,
but rather would
r e m a i n.
— C.Birde, 8/22
Endless — A Poem
Overhead,
the Dog Star pants
& prowls a sky stretched
blue & rainless,
casts unhurried shadows
upon once-green grasses
stitched through
with summer’s leonine heat
turned rasping,
wheaten.
— C.Birde, 8/22
Traffic — A Dream
No matter
that I have no map,
no navigation system…
that the warp & weft
of intersecting highways
remains incomprehensible,
& the frantic push & pull
of traffic sweeps me along
with tidal force…
that strobes of light –
red & white & cautionary
yellow –
stream past in a confusion
of glancing blurs
reflecting off windshields,
steel-gray paneled bodies,
side- & rearview mirrors
dim with rain & half-light…
No matter.
I have foreseen
my arrival,
all the same.
Woodlawn,
I am coming.
— C.Birde, 8/22
Here — A Poem
Rocky Mountain National Park” — C.Birde, 8/22
Locusts
applaud
our efforts at the fringe
of pinetops & wind
set sharp against
the mountain’s
falling hip,
with thinned
& thinning blue sky
caught
about our crowns
& wildflowers
nodding,
sighing at our
earth-dusted feet –
“Yes,
oh, yes,
you’re truly
h e r e.”
— C.Birde, 8/22
Muse — An Image
With sidelong glance
& gesture,
she remarked:
“I
am my own
M u s e.”
— C.Birde, 7/22
Excavation — A Dream
We ascend the gradual slope
of polished stone set between
transparent knee walls
(fingers trailing
brushed aluminum rails)
& leave behind
the noise & commotion
of lights & shops & cafés,
the bustle of others’ motion
& intent.
Here,
we pause to peer beyond
the glass-walled enclosure
of dark earth,
excavated oh so long ago;
to peer at the ancient stone-
boned cathedral held within.
Ghostly spires rise through
dusted half-light;
buttresses span a space of time
unmeasured;
battered curtain walls defend
the sacred, hollow space within.
Alone.
Solitary.
No witnesses, but we –
he
&
me.
— C.Birde, 7/22
Loyalty — An Image
Wreathed
in pale,
lemon-scented Datura,
softly,
she spoke:
“May all your loyalties be
true,
worthy,
&
returned.”
— C.Birde, 7/22
An Absence of Color — A Poem
I will wear black…
The soot black
of ravens,
of crows…
The buff black
of bears’ rigor…
The inky black
of the New Moon’s
star-pricked night
as I mourn.
And,
within the depth
of my dark garment,
I will collect intent
until my shadow –
feathered in light –
blooms
in colors all
its own.
— C.Birde, 7/22
Nightjars & Damselflies 