“Route 75 Traffic” — C.Birde, 2/20
Traffic bisected
the grassland’s
patchwork
in ceaseless tide.
“Only humans,”
she observed,
“will admire
a thing
to its
utter
unmaking.”
— C.Birde, 2/20
“Light Shaft (Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary)” — C.Birde, 2/20
“Hope” — C.Birde, 2/20
“Oh, my dear,”
— a caress
of voice;
tender,
sympathetic —
“when life most hurts,
it is imperative
to seek
j
o
y.”
— C.Birde, 2/20
“Conscience” — C.Birde, 2/20
She wore
her conscience
like a mist —
draped softly
about her,
touching all
she said
&
did.
— C.Birde, 2/20
“Hedged” — C.Birde, 1/20
“Is it meant,”
he frowned,
“to protect or confine?”
She met his eye,
expressionless;
did not immediately
respond.
“That depends…”
she observed,
“entirely
on expectation,
perspective,
on which side
one finds
one’s
s
e
l
f.“
— C.Birde, 1/20
“EyeEyeEye” — C.Birde, 1/20
Sketching
across the paper’s
width and length
in rows
of two, four, three;
sketching them stacked
like great scoops
of ice cream.
Eyes.
One atop another
piled.
Eyes
of melting,
cartoonish
grotesquerie.
Eyes,
staring –
wide and sightless –
from beneath lashes
curling,
spidery.
Eyes
of enlightenment;
of innocence and
judgment.
Eyes
of inner wisdom.
Eyes
of the ego’s “I”.
Those windows
of the soul.
Indeed,
indeed.
Sketching,
sketching
row upon row,
until she takes
the sheet of paper,
nods admiringly,
and,
wielding scissors –
silver,
shining –
slices through
the topmost row,
slices
right through
that row of eyes –
wide and sightless –
straight through
their unblinking
pupils and
irises.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Souldier” — C.Birde, 1/20
“I feel the grief
in my body,”
she said,
“a weight of tears
unshed,
to be shed.”
So Dawn draped her;
Moon crowned her;
& Foxfire
crept into her heart,
so she might
souldier on
— in light —
through the dark.
— C.Birde, 1/20
“Empty” — C.Birde, 1/20
Last night,
beneath the hard,
fluorescent light,
unexpectedly,
you stopped by.
As I searched
the cabinets’ files,
I described
how,
with infant cradled
in my lap,
I had howled
upon learning
of your death,
and how the guilt
of missing
your service
had clung,
unanswered,
un-absolved.
How
recently I’d found,
the post cards
you’d sent;
of my search
for a photo
of you,
unsatisfied.
You listened.
In combed gray suit,
white-collared shirt,
wine-red tie.
Gray of hair,
gray of eye.
In sympathy,
you listened,
you nodded
and sighed.
And I realized
it was you
to whom I spoke,
you…
The very you who –
twenty-four years ago,
not twenty-five –
had died.
Suddenly,
calmly,
I realized –
that I spoke to you
of you,
that I must be
dreaming…
And you,
you
smiled and
sighed.
— C.Birde, 1/19/20
