We are always told to let go.
As if loss were sand to throw
for the wind to take away.
As if defeat were water that vanishes
at the first sun’s regimented beating.
Instead of the tired slow muck of tar
that only spreads the more it is wiped
that only sinks what insists on kicking
but dries a thick sticky solid
when one stops moving
leaving us to wait for rain and time,
a promise of fading, maybe reshaping.