The pool was still, but not silent. Beneath her cloudy veil, she whispered secrets of imbalance, of neglect, of hopes poured in chemical form that never quite landed.
I gave her chlorine, expecting gratitude. But she gave me fog.
I begged the pH to behave, pleaded with the filter to forgive, prayed the sun would not steal the chlorine before it could do its duty.
She did not budge.
Clouds clung to her like shame, and I, the careless keeper, stood guilty beside the ladder, watching.
Brush strokes became apologies. Vacuum lines, acts of redemption.
The filter, that tired heart, was cleaned at last. Backwashed, purged, renewed.
At dusk, when the sky blushed and blinked, I shocked again. This time not with arrogance, but with intention.
Not too little. Not too soon. Not too late.
A poem for her, in balanced parts:
pH: steady. Chlorine: strong. Circulation: constant.
She softened. Cleared. Forgave.
And in the clarity, I saw myself: not a pool owner, but a partner in care, a flawed human in love with blue.
What I know now:
Shock is not magic. It is a ritual.
Balance is not optional. It is everything.
And clear water comes not from wishful thinking, but from daily grace, and chlorine that waits until nightfall to bloom.
No shortcuts. No skipping steps. No more clouded excuses.
Only clarity, earned.
