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


— 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.


Exceed those strictures;

self-defined exuviae

at last outgrown.


restrictive shackles and,

through the atmosphere,

a s c e n d.

— C.Birde, 11/20

Inverted Blue — A Dream

Blue sphere.
“Blue” — C.Birde, 11/20

Beneath the archway entrance to “Suite Seven”, we meet – she & I.

Guide, in royal purple robes that sweep the bisque-pink floor.

Follow Her through open airy room, up shallow steps, outdoors,

where the galleried stone patio – in artful feat of craftsmanship –

floats above a rippling valley of plush & foliaged green.

She never speaks; smiles & leads to He who wears the cobalt blue

of heaven & instructs me in Inversion.

“Hands here; feet here;

hips & tailbone high;

relax the head & neck.”

Ah…warmth of sun-soaked slates beneath my palms, my soles;

spacious planes of earth & sky agreeably reversed.

Together, He & She delineate my form, glide shrewd hands along

elongated muscles, stacked bones; correct awkward tilts & angles,

structure & position, until all is in alignment, agreement.

She steps back, recedes, Her hands two secrets folded deep within

flared purple sleeves.

He remains, moves His flattened palms in slip-skin circular motion,

between my shoulder blades; base of neck; kneads trapezius;

works flesh & muscle like soft clay; fashions, in their place, a shallow,

gently rimmed concavity.

Utterly painless.

Utter somatic re-shaping, re-formation.

He places there, in that space, the sphere – large, heavy as a bowling ball

& as smoothly polished; blue as His robes;

places that unanticipated & arcane globe in the new-formed bodily basin

of upper back, where it rests – veritable onus, orbicular albatross –

against the occipital ridge at the nape of my neck.

“Don’t move, don’t move…”

His words resound like hollow wind in ocean cave.

“Maintain the Inversion.

Do not lose the ball.

Do not let it roll free

to crush your hands,

your skull.”

The sphere, so deeply blue, so heavy & slipping…slipping & shifting…

shifting & sliding…inching ever forward over & toward my right ear.

Each time, they catch it – He & She.

With pointed re-instruction, He returns it, places it in its corporeal nest.

Again & again & again

Cannot endure. Was not built for this. Cannot maintain this shape.

Feel the cry forming, deep within – release me release me release me…

Let it


— 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


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


upon the white page spread before my


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 –


— C.Birde, 10/20