“Together,” she sang,
“Always together.
Regardless of where we stand.
We walk together.
Hearts. Thoughts.
Hands forever at work.
Each act and choice and step
a kiss, a bruise pressed
to this precious skin of land.”
— C.Birde, 7/20
Fragmented
space
time
breath
Fragmented
world
life
self
Collected
slips
scraps
snatches
Collected
lines
threads
words
All,
palm-cupped
heart-fastened
clasped
like
dust
sea-glass
pebbles
cicadas’ spent
shells
Reworked
refashioned in
imperfect
whole.
This tenacity,
this persistence,
this work of
being.
— C.Birde, 7/20
Seven months
since last we met.
Five months since…
Since…
Yet even in passing glance,
even at distance –
familiar.
Stature & gait;
wave of dark, curled hair;
eclipse of cheek –
familiar.
The shade of dress alone
speaks of difference –
uncharacteristic green
of emeralds,
of deep woods
thickly forested in memory
& being.
A color that suits you,
becomes you.
But…
Away, you stride,
path cleared of obstacles.
Unshackled.
Freed.
And I –
bumped & jostled
by this noisome,
swallowing
crowd –
though I call out,
though frantically,
I wave,
you neither see nor hear;
continue on your
way.
I missed you.
I miss you.
Seven months
since last we met.
Five months since…
Since…
— C.Birde, 7/20
“I am the rain,”
her voice pattered
amongst the leaves,
“slaking & soaking,
praised & cursed.
I am a multitude –
of oceans,
of voices;
raising & eroding.”
She touched my face.
“I accept,”
she hushed,
“your tears.”
— C.Birde, 7/20
Campanula blue
inverted bloom of
wings and feathers,
earthward pointing,
fluttering
drooping
Each hollow bone
transformed
to ballast,
recast as gravity’s
servant
Trapped,
held fast by stem
of foot,
scarlet beaded,
bleeding
Unintended consequence
Peace, dear fellow creature,
peace
Cease your valiant struggles
and suffer me
(rueful instrument of
your snaring)
to set you
free.
— C.Birde, 7/20
“Do you have the time?”
I asked.
He shook his head,
continued walking.
“Rats,” I sighed.
“…I think my four-o-clocks
are slow…”
— C.Birde, 7/20
Who spoke those words…?
Gently,
gently she insists
it was not her
(though they sound so like
a consolation
she might offer up to soothe
discontented
nerves.)
Sly mystery.
No solution other than
the words themselves.
“Expectation versus serenity…”
Vice versa.
For mercy’s sake,
for sense of self,
arrange them
properly.
— C.Birde, 7/20
Confined.
Trapped
within the porch,
the wasp batters
itself against watery
glass seeking
nonexistent
exit.
Black,
self-waisted body;
six maroon appendages
waving.
Uselessly,
furiously,
determinedly seeking
what cannot
be found.
The wasp batters
itself against watery
glass.
The wasp batters
itself.
The wasp batters.
Batters.
B
a
t
t
e
r
s.
— C.Birde, 7/20
“Wake!”
she pleaded,
“How can you sleep?
When poppies bloom
in hues of peaches,
dawn, &
mourning doves’
spun-sugar
feet?”
— C.Birde, 7/20
Step through
this weight of air
heavy with rain unshed
that beads along
the fine hairs of
arms and lashes.
Slowly, enveloped.
Melting.
Skin kissed with
atmospheric breath.
The barriers dissolve.
We are
one.
— C.Birde, 7/20
