While away the hours:
we foolishly assign meaning to first encounters
(foxglove, parasol; forgive me).
We turn our eyes to thoughts
of going only so far,
of paint under the limbs,
an angry weight that traces
Remembering only the colours of a holiday
so redbrick rests on your tongue.
Maybe these thoughts are of limited life:
not love as a sprig of sunlight in a blanket
but the tightest tremble,
knotted and shorn.
To write is no different
than arranging a few shapes.
It is a disjointed swing from stillness to movement
– only a few shapes, mind you –
not wholly unlike balancing the moon on a plinth.
Angela Weiser is a writer and editor with a love of language and nature. Based in southern Ontario, she has worked on Indian textiles as a research assistant at the Royal Ontario Museum and she holds an M.A. in Comparative Literature from the University of Toronto. Her poetry can be found in Panoplyzine issue 15, and her art can be found at: flickr.com/photos/unlitstairs