One day a meteor fell to earth,
and formed a small fish pond,
where a god hid an antelope
running frantic from a hunter
quietly under the lake’s silken covers.
She spread the surface so wide
it would take four hours for anyone to cross,
brushed it smooth and opaque
with black dragonfly wings
like eyelashes blinking in silence.
She glittered it with fireflies,
yellow nightlights flickering
on, off, on, off,
giving tiny glimpses of hope,
like circling lighthouse beams.
She shrouded it thick and close
in layers of charcoal grey cloud,
fattened to the edge of exploding,
dangling tendrils like dementor sleeves
hemmed by the moon’s silver.
She left the mud soft enough
to heal anything that came to rest,
the water sweet enough
to listen, cleanse and soothe,
the air warm and still enough
to quiet pattering hearts.
