What is water?

Is it the wetness all around

in the rain;

Or is it the misty morning clinging

in the sunrise?

Is it falling from above to darken

spirits of the sun,

To torment daydreams with thundery

stormy demons?

Or is it the gentle plink, plink,

In the sink,

Or the Dewdrop in the woods

near a sleepy meadow?

Is it the still pool in the garden

of flowers

A surrounding forest reflected

in shadowscapes?

Is it the pounding ocean upon the

sea shore

Erasing footprints, imprints, all that was left

that day?

Is water the deep lake that we

Hike up to see

So tranquil and endowed with

breeze-ridden majesty?

Is water like the soul, roaring like the

ocean, a storm,

Only to be replaced by rippling moments

on a lake

That stir ideas into the shallow pool

in the woods

Where we are scared of the storm

outside

But lulled by the plinking drops,

a water rhythm.