The dam broke in Quebec.
My thoughts,
my words,
and my pen
all moved.
Moved like the thin layer
of brackish water
over the icy depths
of le Fleave St. Laurent.
Moved like the evening breeze
over the cobblestoned streets
past the lighted shops’ doors.
Moved like the flags flying
over le Chateau Frontenac
as the high winds whip.
The French
from the tongues of
the waitresses
and bartenders
and patrons,
and the strums and songs of
the brickwall guitarist,
all worked as white noise,
and the glasses of wheat beer,
the plate of white cheese and
cold red grapes,
and the warm amber candles,
were all sustenance to the soul
to move my pen across the notebook
and break the dam.
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