I am not still water.

I refuse to become a murky suffocated puddle.

Sitting there, gathering dirt and slime.

Festering, rotting in grime,

until I dry away.

Evaporate.

Be as it may,

I refuse to fence myself into a small cavity, 
or a shallow dent on the ground.

I will make waves and carve out tiny streams and channels 
that allow me to be found.

That allow me to be seen,

That allow me to cleanse, to breathe.

To run free, and burst with life.

That allow me to hold my own,

to show you what is mine.

I want to be a tiny brook, 
streaming in mossy green woods.

Rippling gently,
vividly,

amongst the birdsong in the nooks.

Twisting and bending here and there.

Elating the passer by,

stopping by me quite unaware
for a pleasant moment of rest.

Nourishing the flowers growing on my banks.

Carrying the wildlife riding on my surface
and underneath in ranks.

Smoothing the rough rocks sitting where I pass.

Trickling far and wide,
forming my route towards streams en masse.

Joining up with rivers, 
lakes, 
eventually the ocean breeze.

Connected to all water,
to everything underseas.

My small ripples of purity and strength
mould the big picture 
whatever wavelength

On my journey what I've found

My insignificant yet majestic views
of beauty so astound.

From my tiny brook of clarity
For all of them to see,

I did not remain a puddle
dammed, stepped on,

No,

I fought my way to be
truly beautifully free.

Photo by Tomas Sobek on Unsplash