Claire Farley
Lac Bernard When this afternoon has long been forgotten, the spin-drift of silence will hang lightly, fullness of the last chord before refrain. As your brush stains and floods do your thoughts drop, spiccato, or fold over like heavy sheets: the last forgotten under the weight of blankness as a fresh page is scratched with line. The stroke of your brush, the dip of the oar, a word repeated, growing meaning. A stillness, echoing off the docks and canoe, a wall of sound between fallen branches as we glide toward the marsh. When the heron flaps away we let go our breath, not knowing it was held.
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