Send me a postcard from your dugout,
In between casting out your fishing net and reeling it back in.
Tell me about the stellar light that twinkles off of the emerald green surface,
And of the sun that warms the water.
Maybe it’s the churning of the magma coursing through the veins of the Great Rift Valley below,
That burns up through small capillaries into the lake bed,
Its warmth seeping into the aquatic surroundings, instead of the suns piercing gaze that makes these waves undulate with heat.
Tell me about it, when you take your rest, an ephemeral piece in time.
When you cast out your net again, and again, and again,
Think of the ways in which you can tell me all about how the stars became trapped beneath the translucent exterior of the lake,
How they were lured by her languid beauty, came close enough to be swallowed up whole
By her rolling jade curves.
I’d love to hear how her malachite heart lulled great gaseous giants into a blissful sleep
Right beneath her skin.
I want to hear, when your day is done pulling the gossamer of your livelihood back into the canoe for the last time tonight,
How stardust made the lake.