If I Were Water and You Were Air
I used to be restless water—
only the froth and currents
of a moving life.
Now I am still water,
sinking down to where
I can be found
by anyone willing to stand quietly
and look.
Is it true that moving water never freezes?
Is it true that still waters run deep?
Is it true that we are wed in steam?
“What if, caught by air,
it never lets me go?” I ask.
“But even water
turned to air
must fall at last,” you say.
“And what if I fall farther from you?”
I say. “Or what if I never again find banks
that open to contain me?”
I used to be swift flowing water.
Now I am a pool that sinks me deeper every year.
So deep, so deep I sink
that on its way to find me,
even air may lose its way.
This is a poem written 5 years ago.
For dVerse Poets. See other poems from dVerse HERE.

Very interesting poem with some good meaning.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Your poem resonates with me, Judy. I remember being restless water and, although the breeze causes ripples on my pool, I haven’t noticed any stagnant water yet.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Kim. I think the problems arise when we fear going on to the next stage. Nothing wrong with an unrippled pool, either.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This poem, to me, speaks among other things, about fearing we are not supposed to find peace, that we are always forced to change and measure up to various textures of life and those around us. Thank you for sharing the poem!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Oloriel, for your close reading of the poem.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like the ending about going so deep that even air may lose its way.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love it, Judy.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, V.J.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Welcome
LikeLike
I can read the fear underneath that change from moving to still water. The sinking too deep, resonates with me, beyond what we think we can manage and overcome.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I often imagine life as a river, starting with rivulets and then into powerful waterfalls… then a sluggish mighty river merging with sea.
LikeLiked by 1 person