mix mud and heavy raindrops,
a murky puddle void of
the skill to mirror even
the slightest silhouette,
pour some more, pour some
more, until it overpours into
a snake-shaped waterway
flowing gently in May,
in a rugged rush on
monsoon days,
either way, on it, lays
the floating wood and
men with paddle arms
away from their thatched
huts they sail, and sail,
and sail, before even the
first breaking of day,
throwing their nets with
their lean, chocolate arms,
add a whisper, begging
the god of fishes for
a good harvest,
to let this day fill
the chipped, cold plates
waiting back home.
—
