Treasure — An Image

Close up of a pale yellow beech leaf on a mossy log.
“Treasure” — C.Birde, 11/20

“Look for me,”

her voice was sly

as a curl of leaf,

the shiver of wind,

“in unexpected places —

the hidden,

overlooked, and

small, silent spaces.

You will find me

there.”

— C.Birde, 11/20

You — A Poem

Tourne Park's Rattlesnake Meadow, blanketed in fog.
“Misted” — C.Birde, 11/20

The earth wears gilt

Thy sky runs pewter blue

And I…

I think of you

My bones catch the whiff

of Winter and

rattle in their frame

And all my thoughts

my hopes

of future warmth —

like migratory birds —

return always

to you.

— C.Birde, 11/20

Cast Off — A Poem

The dried husk of a Japanese Lantern flower.
“Japanese Lanterns” — C.Birde, 11/20

Let go.

Cast off all

that no longer serves

but once served well

and now confines,

constrains the growth

of beating heart,

of wing and song.

Begone.

Exceed those strictures;

self-defined exuviae

at last outgrown.

Slip

restrictive shackles and,

through the atmosphere,

a s c e n d.

— C.Birde, 11/20

Stories Told — An Image

Close up of the veins of a Norway Maple leaf.
“Norway Maple” — C.Birde, 10/20

“Each leaf

tells the story of the tree,”

she said,

“each feather,

the story of the bird.

With each word you speak

& path you choose,

you cast your own story

out into the world…”

A rustle stirred in her

green-sprouted heart.

She smiled, bent close, & whispered:

“But always & ever,

the choosing

is yours.”

— C.Birde, 10/20

Hallowed Hollow — A Poem

A tree trunk whose base is hollowed out. Autumn leaves have fallen about its roots.
“Hollow” — C.Birde, 10/20

These words, I whispered into the open door

of the hallowed, hollow tree:

Open my eyes.

Sweeten my speech.

Soften my heart.

Gentle my hands.

Broaden my mind.

Strengthen my will.

Deepen my soul.

Remove my fear,

that I might better hear

your reply echo

throughout the elements

surrounding.”

And by “my”, I mean “our”;

and by “I”, I mean “we”.

— C.Birde, 10/20

Empty — A Poem

Close up of a Hitchcock chair in a dining room.
“Empty” — C.Birde, 10/20

It’s not the same without you here.

I’m less inclined to sit and stare out

the open window

at the sweet-winged visitors amongst

bowed seedheads,

waiting for the words to find their way

through that oculus, transformed and

translated

upon the white page spread before my

fingertips.

I get up, instead, wander – shapeless,

aimless – into the kitchen and load

the dishwasher,

that dark and hungry box, like so many,

that must continually

be fed and filled with the mundane.

When I return, the empty chair remains.

Empty of –

    you.

— C.Birde, 10/20