Meditations on Water

August 5, 2012

Meditation on Water

I am water. 

I am the rain that fell on my upturned face last night. 

Life-giving, thirst-quenching rain swept up into clouds

To fall again and again.

To be dew and frost,

Snow and fog,

Puddle and flood.

I am the sluggish vernal pond that holds spring peepers and teems with life. 

I am rimmed with eggs and promises.

I am rich with swamp scents,

Protected by cattails.

I am the inland lake, 

sparkling with sunlight,

silver rippled surface in small breeze. 

Dark and cool in my depths, light and warmth in my shallows. 

Minnows breathe the air I hold.

 

I am the moving current

of the river and stream. 

My rocks are slippery with algae,

and crayfish tiptoe on my floor. 

The heron’s long legs pick delicately

along my borders,

and turtles sun themselves

on my fallen trees.

I am the Great Lake,

All colors and depths,

Turquoise and green,

Black and silver.

Lovely rocks tumble

With my crashing waves.

Wind whips me

While I am held cupped

In the hands of the continent.

I am water.

I change forms.

I stay the same.

I change colors.

I hold any shape you give me.

I have deeps no one has seen,

And shallows

Visible to all.

I am cold

And warm.

I overflow,

And I shrink away,

Becoming invisible at times.

I can be wild and loud,

And soft as a ripple,

Smooth as glass.

You may disturb me

Endlessly,

But I remain

In the end

Still.

Water.

T.