Looking Backward — A Dream

A cluster of brilliant orange orchids, hanging from overhead.
“Orchid” — C.Birde, 2/21

Solitary passenger

in the way, way back

of this long green

station wagon

Tailgate gaping

Sweet tabby cat

(alternating gray

& tea-with-cream)

for company

Far up front –

with select passengers –

the vehicle’s pilot

guides it backwards

along a curving road

as, to the left,

the great, gray sea

falls down, away,

& to the right

& overhead twists

a jungle-y clamor

of green

See?

Amongst those vines

& great broad leaves,

the Good Lord Bird!

And more –

Downy,

Red-Headed,

-Bellied…

Uncharacteristically

slipping sturdy beaks

into vibrant blooms

& sipping

Elating

Breathtaking

Calling out their names

& pointing

But to whom?

For they,

so far up front,

so far away,

can’t see.

— C.Birde, 2/21

Just Desserts — A Dream

A close-up of a woman's lavender-violet hair.
“Violet” — C.Birde, 1/21

The gray remains

Ubiquitous

Unchallenged

Bleak winter sky,

drained of color,

extends its influence

Except…

Except for her —

Take my hand

See there, ahead?

Her once-dark-hair

now silvered violet?

Watch her cross

the intersection, see?

Pause here with me

The light,

so slow to change…!

Impatient, we cross

& follow where she leads

up streets unpeopled –

empty, too, of traffic –

her lead by swift steps

increasing until,

down an alleyway she slips

& vanishes completely.

But wait….

This shop unknown…

& there,

beyond plate glass see

her hair?

Sleek lavender strands

a-gleam through laden

wire shelves?

Shelves replete with sweets

of every kind

in Prismacolor hues –

cakes & cookies, pies,

macarons;

pink & green, fuchsia, blue.

Each sweet with care

displayed

& oh so beautiful.

Yes, of course

Take your time

Wander

Look before you choose.

But here,

this single slice of cake –

frosted white,

layers bright cerulean blue –

is mine.

— C.Birde, 1/21

Walking the Monochrome — A Dream

A close-up photograph of pebbly, worn, old macadam.
“Asphalt” — C.Birde, 1/21

Walking…

Walking through

a monochrome sea

of time-washed

macadam

devoid of lines,

of delineations…

On and onward

Each footfall,

a pulse unheard

Tirelessly moving

through this lost

and absented place

beneath first one,

then a second

overpass pressed –

in heavy arch and

swing;

a frown, a grin –

against a watery sky

Piercing

the dull shadows

of those vulturous

crossings,

consumed by half-light…

A road ahead,

hitherto unseen,

emerging,

uncurling,

curving outward

to meet a wide,

empty highway

Seeing,

on the further curve

(that generous hip

of curb),

lawn- and folding chairs

arranged and occupied

as if to spy

some soon-to-come

parade

Recognizing one

(see? he waves?)

among their numbers

Waiting now for the

solitary car to pass,

then another,

until it’s safe

to cross and join

the small throng gathered

in a wedge of light

that sifts between

the intersecting over-

passes sweeping

past and

overhead.

— C.Birde, 1/21

Winter Prayer — A Poem

Photography of a leafless, winter Norway Maple.
“Norway Maple in Winter” — C.Birde, 1/21

Peeled away

That tousled,

tumbled veil of leaves

A verdant memory left –

like a puff of breath –

clinging

to the form beneath

Imperfection,

rough beauty, &

strength laid bare

All manifestations

exposed

Revealed —

like prayer —

by the cold,

spare,

bone-bare,

honest touch

of Winter.

— C.Birde, 1/21

Worth — An Image

A photograph of green moss growing against a red brick.
“Moss” — C.Birde, 1/21

“You are

no less important

than the greatest

of mountains,”

she spoke in wind &

weather,

“& no more important

than the smallest

of mosses –

each,

a world all its own,

& a treasure.”

— C.Birde, 1/21

New Year, Old Friend — A Poem

A bare-branched Linden tree, brightly lit, against a clear-blue winter sky.
“Old Friend (Linden)” — C.Birde, 1/21

Keep at the chase,

the resplendent lights

and roar

of externalized joy

slipping –

annually,

perennially

through grasping

fingers…

Or…

Make a friend of sorrow

Shake its hand,

learn its curves

and contours,

its bruise-blue depth

and hue

Feel its familiar weight

softly brushed

against the shoulders’

curl

There is no shame here,

in acquaintance

of this humble keeper

of memory –

only an open door

to self-knowing,

a lifetime

of understanding,

recognized.

— C.Birde, 1/21