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.