I am a body of water:
I may appear
standing still;
Deep inside
I am actually running.
My home is a bed
I pack on my back
when I am on the run.
When I am not fleeing
the outside stillness
of the air,
of the night,
of the sunlight so bare,
I am at peace.
Sometimes, a deluge,
like a centrifuge,
tests my element
and tries to separate me
from my refuge
for proper identification.
Every now and then,
I change my shape
to escape
every now and then;
my face mirrors
many other faces.
When I let other people
get to meet me,
get to know me,
get close to me,
still –
I leave no prints,
I leave no tracks,
I leave them alone.
I am a body of water.
As much as possible,
I will leave nothing behind
except
a slowly
vanishing ripple.