I live in a small attic roost in downtown Ottawa, three doors and
a tree from the Rideau Canal. Some days I wear the fraying hat of
a managing editor at the University of Ottawa Press; other days I
remain tucked under the eaves in literary pursuits of my own. Leaf
Press and Bywords Quarterly have over the last couple of years featured
some of my poems.
|
|
©
2007 Marie Clausén
sketching spring on a winter
canvas
mohair moons come
unravelled when dragged
down tar-crumbed shingles;
snag in the tangled taper
of oak
breaths of unfallen snow
nap the earthed, woollen light;
and a shiver comes to nest
in a moon-coloured curve
of rib
a wooled moon pulls
the cramping seepage, bedded
and banked in silt; blindly
picking at unnamed lichens,
our hands attend the birth
of spring
|
