Letting Go

by revbillcook

A ceramic urn filled with ashes
sits beneath a window.
A woman sits in the room
in silence, knitting.

It’s November and the Sycamore trees
along the river are loosing their leaves.
In the stiff breeze they twist, break free;
the trees are letting go.

Fallen leaves float on the river.

Letting go of air and color
they surrender to the water.

Sometimes my life feels like
one long lesson in letting go.

I remember my father
letting go of my hand.
We were fishing. Twisting away
I ran toward the river.
I still see him behind me,
our thin poles held in one hand.

I practice letting go.

Imagine letting go of all of this:
the urn, the silent room.
The river, the tress, all disappear.
Nothing left but light, then
the light disappears.

It is time to let
go. It is time
to let go.
It is time