Warding Off Cliché at the Edge of a Lake

The sun is not rising. The water looks like nothing
I could express with like or as.
I consider this a good thing: The way we stumble
for synonyms—
for firelight
for shimmer
for remembering that the stress of your son’s name
is on the last syllable—
it’s a law of nature I’m desperate to repeal.
This is how you address a lake at 6 p.m.
after a storm you didn’t order
when water reminds you of nothing but doggerel
that you open your heart to anyway.
What’s nature but the way things would be without you?
Giving your heart to a lake and waiting for the acid rain?