It’s not a question of letting
go but of never having had
hold. It’s not a question.
Our hands are empty often
and at best only transfer,
never own. Possession is
nine tenths of illusion
Hands operate as points
lines use to reach points-next.
We might say all lives
are way-stations to nowhere: The I
passes through the Me,
connecting points to point
of ceasing-to-be. In a
related story, animals
demonstrate how to live
fully engaged even at rest
and without ambition, careers
being a quaint human invention.
Will is quite the contraption,
too—the right tool for a few
jobs but misapplied in most—
an anvil in a solarium.
And so again this Fall
I’ll read the geese. I will
be thinking V as they are
knowing fly. I’ll “let them go.”
Hans Ostrom
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/v-for-surrender/
