“Bungalow” — C.Birde, 4/21
Evicted.
Expelled.
Dispossessed
of that old house
on the hill.
Three stories
of tilting timeworn
clapboard
& peeling paint
flaking over tired
green grass.
Seize it. Take it.
And welcome.
It matters not at all.
For in the moonless
night-spangled
dark,
I moved (removed),
like guileless wind,
all small & coveted
prized possessions –
a whole life’s worth
of work & soul
& pulsing wounded
heart –
to the small brown
bungalow nested
oh-so-sweetly
in the valley
below.
— C.Birde, 4/21
“Olaf, Norway Maple” — An Image
“Sing with me”,
she trilled,
“our tongues curling
‘round each fleet,
green note;
‘round the tender sound
of each new leaf
unfurling…”
— C.Birde, 4/21
“Daffodil” — C.Birde, 4/21
“In yellow,
I rejoice,”
she swept her arms
wide as her
grin,
“You will see me
a’thrill
in each daffodil &
forsythia,
each dandelion &
goldfinch
returning.”
— C.Birde, 4/21
“L” — C.Birde, 4/21
So grateful
for your visit,
so many months
since your last.
A full year since…
Over a year…
Seeing you at all –
as you were,
as always you will be
in memory –
is Gift enough.
Even if
you don’t speak,
don’t see me,
don’t stay.
Grateful,
all the
same.
— C.Birde, 4/21
“Daffodils” — C.Birde, 4/21
“I may weep &
lash out
in wind &
thunder,”
she placed
a wreath
of dappled light
upon my brow,
“but
I will always
sing to you again
in hyacinths &
daffodils.”
-- C.Birde, 4/21
“Atmosphere” — C.Birde, 3/21
Sent out…
away from this
bright impersonal
space
with all its
glittering crosstalk
& hectic motion…
Cast out…
into umbrous night
& with an errand tasked:
return with cake…
Pavement,
heaved & crack’d & bound
around in encroaching,
tangled trees that bow
& rub together limbs
all but leafless…
And,
at the farthest end –
near swallowed up
in starless scrub –
a structure…
O, architectural wonder!
Entirely comprised
of swoops
& swirls
& curves
of hammered metal
sheets symmetrically
arranged to either side
of a single, central
door…
And,
above this fabulous
entry’s lintel –
nested amidst curls &
intersecting twines
of metal –
an enormous lemon,
all aglow in halo
of soft yellow
light…
Indeed,
the only light to move
or chase throughout
the whole benighted
place.
But,
nowhere,
anywhere at all,
a single frosted piece
of cake
in sight.
— C.Birde, 3/21
“Maple Dryad” — C.Birde, 3/21
“I am light –“
she spoke
in scintillating
spectrum,
“drape me
about your shoulders.
I am rain & fog & snow —
quench your thirst.
I am wind —
hear me.
Together,
we are
whole.”
— C.Birde, 3/21
“Crocuses” — C.Birde, 3/21
With the weight
of Winter
& the recent year
still present,
she says:
“Look —
I bring you
crocuses…”
— C.Birde, 3/21
“Scaffold” — C.Birde, 3/21
The boy has died.
One third
her not yet twenty
years.
Intolerable.
Unbearable.
Here:
within this rough
underground womb
of dull-winking
hematite,
through the crucible
of her direction,
the memorial
is constructed.
She oversees
the smooth stage’s
raising;
the steel frame’s
enclosure struck
with lights;
white screens,
like windless sails,
unfurled.
His image –
luminous,
aflare –
will transcend
the dark &
breach the void.
The boy has died.
She wears the burden
of his absence
with fury –
raw-edged &
bristling.
— C.Birde, 3/21
“Daffodil Blades” — C.Birde, 3/21
“I will pierce
the rimed earth’s
slumbering crust…”
Blades
of green daffodils
chased
with her voice.
“I will pierce it
— like Eros —
with love…”
— C.Birde, 3/21