- Kim Fahner
Rainstorm in August, Lake Erie
Stand on the edge
of this roughened shore:
root yourself down
into the bits of stone,
find your toes wanting to
bury themselves deep in
beach pebbles that have been
ground down to soft grey
by this great lake’s waves.
The rain silvers itself,
hides behind windswept veils
that begin across the bay,
stretches forward with fingers
that grasp and try to gather swells,
mercury coloured, rising and falling
in time with your breath.
Watch now, waiting,
sitting on a swirl of driftwood,
sharp-angled forward, bent
from the waist, and
leaning into the
extended metaphor
of stormy heart.
Then, find a fossil,
rain-wet and slick,
rub it between your fingers,
feel the ridges and whorls
texture themselves into being;
put it in your pocket, gather it in,
worry it into nothingness.