the crow hour II

I write between drops.  eaves dripping.

two crows in a tree      like ears      listen.

again   I fool myself

            that I can even get close

               to writing         :rain:

these        ghosts on the page that pull at me

drag me out of my skin          into certainties.

if we have to be     truly philosophical 

                   we will not say

a word.

    in the linden tree         below the balcony—

the breaking of twigs the weaving of a nest.

crows here speak so effortlessly    of rain

tap         tapping             on leaves

and the strip of light         above the horizon


    delivers us

        to the eye of the moon

                    to the night

where we are dark thought     perched

in the trees of dreams.

with first light

      you notice

          speckled turquoise eggs.

   rain     isn’t

          divisible           from this.


November   (in another year of War

the rains have come   again.



the wind.

under the skin                                  in my palms

a quickening—              small red 

        birds     taking off.

how the rain sits

        on crows’ wings

               as they take the place

          of leaves—

black  in the trees

            black against    November sky.

these tannin tears          are not

                 what you   (think.

below         the maple leaves 

                claw     the earth—

             their seven

    little fingers     curling

so unbearably      red


on the ground—    thousands 

                 of hearts


           the seasons



                                                                                                                                                  Say the mind is not a point of origin,

                                                                                                                                                  but a skin carrying sensation into the midst of objects.

                                                                                                                                                  – Lisa Robertson


how we        confuse         ourselves.

waiting.                sure

something is about to      become


while        the vacuum     is on

while the drier tumbles        and stacks

its circles        pointing—

          a gathering of lint


       sOft   to the tOuch.


   the point—


I look into  your    eyes

while      on the surFace

our mouths   move words

shuffle them on the checkered table—

lint chess pieces     full of longing

in our stillness

       in our limited  moves.

as the eye fuses with 

          what the mouth misses

the kettle whistles

            bRings us 


Daniela Elza’s work has appeared nationally and internationally in well over 60 publications. Her debut poetry collection, the weight of dew, was published by Mother Tongue Publishing in 2012.  Daniela is interested in the ecological potential of the poetic consciousness. She dwells in the gaps, rubs and (b)ridges between poetry, language and philosophy. Her poems the crow hour II and November ( in another year of War are from her latest  book, milk tooth bane bone, just published by Leaf Press ( 2013). She lives and writes in Vancouver, Canada.

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