Always after dark when the pool
floods with underwater light,
the very definition of aquamarine,
so that it feels like stroking through

Alone, there’s no need to stay in one lane,
which is fortunate since every summer
I must relearn how to pull and scull evenly,
especially on my back, so as not to torpedo off
at such an angle or bash into a wall, a step,
a railing arcing silver into the water. Even
in the pool my perennial klutziness manifests.

But after the annual reorientation of a land
mammal returning to a liquid state,
my laps straighten themselves out, body
memory taking over what the mind cannot
direct. From water we long ago emerged and
to water we return, especially at the end
of superheated summer days, to cool ourselves,
to switch off thinking, to float—blessedly float—

and find ourselves supported by something greater,
something simpler, always held.

Photo / Dick Schmidt

About janishaag

Writer, writing coach, editor
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8 Responses to Aquamarine

  1. Gloria Beverage says:

    Lovely. Thanks for sharing.

  2. Dick Tracy says:

    Oh my gosh…you’re not wearing a SWIMSUIT!

  3. Margery Thompson says:

    Looks very peaceful, Jan. John can arrange rotating colored lights in our pool if you would like sometime!

  4. dorothyhaag says:


    Love, Mom


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