Lost — An Image

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“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

 

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Words of Rust — A Poem

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“Rusted Bell” — C.Birde, 7/18

 

Words —

tossed,

hurled,

let slip

in the deep, dark, pre-dawn

night;

cold,

hard,

twisted

to self-serving purpose —

toll

like a rusted bell,

like a heart hollowed

out.

 

— C.Birde, 7/18

 

Sky Writing — A Dream

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“Meadow” — C.Birde, 7/18

 

Broad and blue as water, the sky floats above a lush green meadow tossed with wind-stirred wildflowers. Calm. Lovely. Pastoral. On the horizon, beyond hill and grass and flowers, a low line of white vapor forms — lifts and drifts, expands.

A word, born of white cloud; mist-edged yet distinct. Gently, it wafts upward, pushed higher by another word. Then another. Until the words stretch and elongate in height, and the sky is inscribed in pale, loose-formed text. A second line follows, then a third and a fourth. The lines scroll upward, and soon, the sky — from horizon to vault — is filled with perfectly-formed cloud words.

Over there, amongst the sky-written page, floats the word: “Flowering”.

Below that: “in and beyond”.

And there, adrift together: “peace” and “time”.

 

— C.Birde, 7/18