Lakeside after it rains

Nothing’s changed really
merely dipped in dark ink,
the lake still mirrors
silver as hauls of fish
floating. But night doesn’t fall;
it rises from the still opal –
a mermaid come to roost
on the shell-hard bank,
opening like a cautious fist
she rows the moon.

Curled leaves (mermaid hair) feed the rivulets
of her bare arms to where her fingers dig
into the dimpled cisterns of her bed.
Everything waits. The shadows of reed
and trunk, even the ballooning breathing silence
is gooseflesh and wound spring.
We lie wakeful
on the tense sinew of the night
poised on edge – like a seed
on the cusp of wild possibility.

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FOOTNOTE: I must’ve been living under a rock to not have heard about Mary Oliver. Her poems are genius! I’ve been bingeing on all of her works I could get my hands on. ‘The Swan’ is currently my absolute favorite.

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