She moves like water,
Flows around mountains,
Slips slyly through the smallest crack;
Feeling the pull of the moon,
Sustaining life,
Seeking her own level.
She is a soft morning dew,
A drenching downpour.
She floats down from the heavens,
Glittering white and tempting us to
Stay home and play.
The next day she is gray and half frozen;
Demanding attention, she kills your father at 53.
She is an iceberg, a tsunami,
Steaming volcanic rebuke;
She is made of tears —
Frustration, joy, rage;
What she carries is in her but not of her;
Her shape shifts, but not her substance.
Slowly she wears away stone.
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