I was born to let go and I have let go of many things:
the way the morning rises above the Pacific,
and sand sliding from my hands;
I have let go of the old afternoon, tired from heat,
and I have let go of every evening that I lived;
the hardest has been the love,
slipping through a sieve like rare events
made common in loss.
Here I am, leaning toward the watchtower,
where angels stand silent and constant,
and I think: they do not let go, but see everything
that had a name and what didn’t have a name,
but I am human in the way I open and close.
My maturity covers my heart
like the woven prayer shawl draped over my sofa,
worn when memory steals my forgetfulness;
then all that I have freed from the pulse in my wrist
flutters against my arm resting aside my bowing,
and I see how love became a kind respect,
some dignity of having felt the way a wave must feel
as the moon pulls with irresistible force of intent,
its lifting and then releasing, how the wave must feel
as water un-gathered, and then gathered,
and then rushing deep around again, un-gathered.
Rhythms of attachment
are threads that quiver in the loom,
the spools that spun the cloth of those old shirts I wore
bearing the scent of people I knew and who I once held
in body or mind, and then, let go, and they became prayers
I said once, and sometimes say again,
because that is how love lingers.
I was born to let go,
and I have let go of many things
so nothing is broken
just released, given like a gift:
the hardest, and the greatest, was love.
by Mary L. Fraser