I no longer swing from storm to puddle
or flood the basement during freak winter storms.

I no longer cleanse the dirt from hands and face, 
nor do I provide blessing or baptism.

I have become inconsequential as 
sea splatter drying on rocks.

I used to hold ships afloat on my back,
drowned a man or two in my youth

back when I was all hips and hurricane,
back when I was unruly ocean,

but my tumultuous surf has proven tedious 
and the seascape too vast for waning current.

I am not longer patient enough to erode stone or mountain. 
I no longer flow around obstacles or caress hands.

No longer do the seasons affect my consistency. 
I no longer freeze in the winter, nor do I fall in April. 

I no longer offer nourishment or encourage creation. 
I am no longer necessary. I am no longer needed. I am extra, gratuitous.

I am no longer water and yet I remain
bound to this mortal earth for a little longer. 

Perhaps I have become the wind
not essential air but lazy breeze

that does little more than cool
a swimmer fresh from the sea

or carry a leaf from branch through 
the ether to its final resting place.

I am not strong enough to break a branch.
I am not angry enough shake the house or creek the walls.

I do not howl; I whisper,
barely strong enough to scatter seeds.