“Skunk Cabbage” — C.Birde, 3/20
“Thank you,”
she spoke from half-light,
seen,
not seen,
“for all the small,
odd,
curious things —
the skunk cabbage,
the owl pellet,
the brittle lace
of shed snake’s skin,”
a breath,
a pause,
“for I am small &
odd &
curious,
too.“
— C.Birde, 3/20
“Owl Pellet” — C.Birde, 3/20
“Sea” — C.Birde, 3/20
Quick.
Get in.
No time to spare.
We’ll row
row row the boat,
rosy, fleet, & lean
through the churning
choppy sea
to save the pink dol-
phins.
Row
row row the boat,
rosy, fleet, & lean,
grip the handles
dip the oars
& save the pink dol-
phins.
Repeat,
in rounds.
Repeat.
— C.Birde, 3/20
“Solitude” — C.Birde, 3/20
“In silence,
in solitude,“
— her voice thrummed,
everywhere &
nowhere —
“there
are
a n s w e r s.”
— C.Birde, 3/20
“Yellow Stairs” — C,Birde, 3/20
Wait…
He pauses,
hesitates…
Were they always
there?
That set of stairs –
flaking yellow paint
& crumbling;
so unlike the house
from which
they quietly climb
away …
Those stairs
that burn pale
with jaundiced light,
& curve dustily
clockwise,
upward,
out of sight…
Uncertain,
he climbs,
each step releasing
a sifting,
chalky powder,
each step releasing
memory…
Until…
On the landing,
peering beyond
the doorway’s open arch,
he views the room —
stark,
bare of ornament but
for one small, deep-set
window;
two twin beds thrust
hard against
the wall…
With grief,
a clutch of heart,
he remembers
all.
No place
for children,
for a child.
With flood & rush,
it returns &
he remembers.
O, he remembers
a l l.
— C.Birde, 3/20
“Centered” — C.Birde, 3/20
While the world
spun &
roared &
thundered…
She cradled
her heart
— like a nestling —
crooning
sweetly.
— C.Birde, 3/20
“The Second Story” — C.Birde, 3/20
Was it you?
Really you I saw
that day,
that night,
while I stood with the wind
in the rail lines’ slope
of scree and
scrubby weeds?
So many miles folded
between us,
yet so clearly
I saw you through
the window’s smooth panes
of glass two stories up
in that time-peeled,
wood-frame farmhouse…
You bent
to lift the kettle,
your back curved
like a scythe,
like the sickle moon,
and I said
(my promise traversed
the separating space
though I never raised
my voice)
I said that I would help
at a word,
a gesture –
drop the kettle;
thump the floorboards
with the broom’s handle,
with your heel…
I would help.
The words left my lips,
and I wondered how,
in this mortal world,
a ghost might manipulate
matter to be heard?
Our lines diverged.
Slow-strobing signal’s
flash.
Cinders’ sigh of
warning…
We were
to meet
for tea…
— C.Birde, 3/20
“Crocus Slope” — C.Birde, 3/20
“You will know me –“
hers was a murmur
to warm
winter’s bones —
“by the garment
I wear —
of snowdrops &
crocus;
by the buds
in my
hair.”
— C.Birde, 3/20
“Crocus” — C.Birde, 3/20
