Passage — A Poem

Photo of an old White Oak, looking upward through its leafless winter limbs.
“White Oak” — C.Birde, 3/21

Cold wind

full of Winter’s

coarse & paling breath;

that, in slow retreat,

rattles trees’

pre-bud leafless

limbs…

Pass through

this insubstantial form

like

     song.

— C.Birde, 3/21

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

Fixation — A Poem

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“The Trees” — C.Birde, 11/18

 

     

The occlusion exists,

      persists

resists clear sight.

We look, but do not see.

Focus trained myopically

on that bit,

that sliver,

that comfortable

shard of malleable truth.

      Distortion…

            Contortion…

Fleet glimpses of the whole

caught unexpectedly.

Insects trapped

in self-made amber —

dismissing whole forests

for the isolated

tree.

 

— C.Birde, 11/18

Rest — An Image

Rest.jpg

“Rest” — C.Birde, 11/18

 

Gently

— so gently —

the leaves drift

& fall.

Let them rest…

Let them share

— in rustling, rasping voice —

their tale

of fickle light

& forfeit height

with the

ever-patient

earth.

 

— C.Birde, 11/18

 

Toads — A Dream

Frog 2.jpg

“Frog” — C.Birde, 10/18

 

Caught within the tangle of scratching, leafless forsythias at the road’s edge — that pale, packed strip of gravel, bending, bow-like and away left and right. Beyond the road’s farther edge, where the intrusion of gravel gives way to tumbled brown earth; beyond the earth’s gradual slope and the slim, young trees arranged haphazardly over that gentle declination — a ribbon of glittering blue, a deep lake of still water, its surface stirred by breeze. They have already crossed, slipped through the trees, their hands tracing those slender trunks as they passed, headed for the water, out of sight.

Watching, caught within the forsythias’ whip-wand embrace. Bending forward, doubled over at the waist. Shaking head and hair — gently. The toads tumble earthward, dozens of small dull brown toads shaken gratefully free of entangling hair. Watching them hop and scatter in all directions.

Laughing.

Laughing.

 

— C. Birde, 10/18