Water

Am I easy going,
in temperment, in attitude,
like the slow meandering river
or the placid glass
upon the lake
the morning mist
rises over
till disipates?

Or am I tempestuous,
and restless?
like the river running
rapids, in leaps, it bounds
down sides of mountians,
or the sea that churns itself
to fight the wind
in all its movements?

Or am I both:
the quiet still,
the roaring laughter,
the sound of rain
that’s sometimes soft,
but sometimes louder?
I must be then
all things, the water.