A Unrhyming Poem About Water
Water alone is bland
Clear, tasteless, colorless.
Yet it fuels life.
In depth and reflection,
In impurity and clarity,
It becomes ocean, sky,
A mirror wide and blue.
Streams babble and gurgle,
As if they’re whispering secrets,
Or quietly complaining.
Rivers rush and roar—
Unapologetic, wild,
Carving their path through resistance.
The shore crashes and booms,
Washes away,
Only to return again.
Rain patters gently on rooftops,
Soft, nourishing,
Waves lap with lullaby hush.
But when the sky turns bruised,
And storm clouds frown,
Down falls rain,
Then hail,
Then ice.
With the seasons, shapes shift.
From dewdrops to flakes,
From drifting snow to glassy spheres
Each a different form,
Each its own pattern.
Ice cracks and groans.
Snow falls soft,
Frost traces windows
Steam rises in curling plumes,
Hissing, alive.
Mist and fog hover thick,
Heavy and silent.
Steam can burn.
Mist can blind.
Fog can weigh you down.
Yet they all live together—
One family,
One unbroken cycle.
Today, you might be a river.
Yesterday, a crashing wave.
Tomorrow, a quiet cloud
Becoming rain.
You are more than half water.
You can take shape,
Solidify,
Rise above.
If you can’t pass through a wall,
Flow around it.
Water does.
