An index of fruit trees in paintings and the figures, white-smocked in dark hats, that crouch
beside them in storybook atemporality. I did not request so much room to feel, latticework wide
in the distances of colour, enlarging as we speak.
Red earth, cold blue leaves of low-growing herbs,
mountain ridge, its tones merge with sky and rooftop hanging vine —
Don’t let me stumble on the rocks that turn pink in the sun.
These words appear as cardboard cutouts against that long plateau inside me:
someone is pulling ivy off a wall.
A moment ajar. When the moon exceeds reason, then you’ll know. About to realize a
suddenness of blooms, an ache of no noise.
On that note, the disbelief is here again. I write to the sound of the crickets. One step
removed from my own life. We paved a path in midair. I write so the time slows.
Many-coloured ferns, the coursing shadows between gingko boughs. The earth gleams
Shadows run like white water.
Angela Weiser is a writer and editor based in Southern Ontario, Canada. She has recently published three handwritten prose poems, paired with photography and audio, in Osmanthus Press’ Clippings from Toad Palace, 蟾宫折桂 and her work can also be read in Cypress, After the Pause, and other places. You can find her at @unlitstairs on Instagram/Twitter and at flickr.com/photos/unlitstairs.