Photo art by Tom Branch

Letting go is like
Letting go of honey,
or letting go of dirt 
under your fingernails after
an afternoon in the garden

Letting go is like
dropping a hot-handled skillet,
the imprint bubbled into your palm.

Or it is like lingering.
It is losing the scent 
from a lover’s pillow.

It is the slow melt. 

It is marking each labored breath
while feeling the planet’s rotation
under your feet.

Letting go is like blowing 
a dandelion 
into the wind,
a contrary wind, 
that whisks tiny tailed wisps 
up your nostrils
under your eyelids
into your ears.

Letting go is artless wretchedness.
There’s no beauty in it:
It is a roll in the mud and
a stumble through the briars.
But when you emerge, 
your dented grace 
and seedling peace 
will be enough.