Four snakes –
Slim black
ribbons
of tongue-
flicking,
flexible life
scrawled
across my path:
Four compass
points
of blessing
Four strokes
of wisdom
Four opportun-
ities to shed
my skin
& begin
again.
— C.Birde, 5/22
Sleep interrupted
by strobe of lights –
red & blue & white
stroked in rotation
of flashes against
the ceiling …
Rise & slip
across the floor,
part the drapes,
& kneel –
forehead to glass –
at the window…
Peer out & down,
absorb the scene
below…
Police & fire &
emergency trucks
cluster in the rain-
flooded street…
People mill & study
their handiwork…
The dogwood –
stretched prone –
lies on wet grass,
a graceless knot
of limbs pricked
in pink blooms…
Twenty-six years
of growth,
cut down…
All that remains,
a ragged stump
in broken light
& rain.
— C.Birde, 5/22
Don’t.
Don’t ask me for directions
as you slowly drive by,
one of a long line
in a ribbon
of cars.
I walk
barefoot through downpour &
darkness at the road’s edge;
mud & grit & gravel scour
the tender soles
of my feet…
Ahead,
Stonehenge lifts in pale light…
I stand
at the striped carnival kiosk,
sorting paper scraps from
nickels from bright gold-
foiled chocolate coins;
unable to purchase
entrance.
You think
I know the way
forward?
I think
not.
— C.Birde, 5/22
Youth’s coverlet of red
spread over green grass
sprigged with violets
Scarf of owls concealing
eyes closed against
the sun…
Inhaling
Blue Jay’s declarations
& Cardinal’s belling call
White-throated sparrow’s
soft query
& House Sparrows’
collective colloquy
Catching
Chipmunk’s mild distress
scratched & scuffled
against the downspout’s
hollow
While,
the Wind prowls overhead
like an enormous cat,
weaves in & out & through
spruce’s bristled limbs
& maples’ fern-laced leaves
& reaches d
o
w
n to pluck
the tassled, blue-gray scarf
of sheltering owls with wings
o u t s p r e a d.
— C.Birde, 5/22
Sunshine –
heatless word fed to
the Changeling to convey
complexity of feeling,
to sidestep
fine hairline breaks,
over Time’s span,
accumulating…
In a moment’s blaze,
the maze of eggshells
so long
& carefully cultivated,
crushed to powder
underfoot…
Each from the other
propelled in orbits
unanticipated beyond
a moniker’s bright veil
toward ashes
of that hopeful word’s
well-intentioned light
now drained of warmth,
darkly eclipsed,
extinguished,
lost.
— C.Birde, 4/22
When deep underground
in vast subterranean caverns
that drip with moisture &
winged shadow & echoes
of past, present, &
oh-so-uncertain futures –
do not attempt to parley
with Wyverns;
Nostrils seeping brimstone,
they will sit quietly grinning
across the conference table’s
great gleaming length of wood
& agree to every- & anything
that creates a sense of ease…
All to their own strategic
advantage.
An exercise,
for you,
in utter
futility.
— CBirde, 4/22