Lac Bernard

Lac Bernard Claire Farley

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.