Wash
the trees’
tight buds
in pink blush
of twilight
& whisper
in sweet hyacinth
breath.
Tidal spring,
engulf us all.
Sweep
up our hearts
in a swoon
of petals’
drift.
— C.Birde, 4/21
Twilight Song — A Poem
trees
Passage — A Poem
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
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
Violet — An Image
“Violet” — C.Birde, 12/18
The foothills
filled with mist
and the crest
wore a crown of trees
and the light shone
softly,
softly
while I roved
a violet
dream.
— C.Birde, 12/18
Exhale — A Poem
“Exhale” — C.Birde, 11/18
Each leaf,
a breath
captured,
collected,
Falling,
now fallen
in sweet
exhalation.
A volume of sighs —
oak & maple,
sassafras, linden,
& hickory —
strewn
at
our
feet.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Fixation — A Poem
“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” — 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
Sweetgum — An Image
“Sweetgum” — C.Birde, 10/18
Shining Sweetgum
sagely scatters
scores
of
seedpods,
spiked & spherical.
— C.Birde, 10/18
Toads — A Dream
“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
Lost — An Image
“Lost” — C.Birde, 7/18
She is not lost,
locked away,
asleep in some rose-tangled
tower.
We have bartered
Her
for immediacy,
for convenience.
— C.Birde, 7/18
