When we let go...

Breast plumped against winds, you crouch on top branch, robin red in last spring snow.

I take out that sensor, that photographic way of netting a moment, and you sense too and take wing, lighting to river, wings a flutter in a shake of flakes, and I’m left empty handed in the expanse, all good things gone in the wind.

So I stand with a vacant frame full of limbs. And these pixels of epiphany.

Let life fly. Who are we take words and color and hold time tight? Hands open in worship is the apex of art. Wisdom.

So I walk. And on the way back, back to the wind, I find you waiting soundlessly, scarlet vest warmed, and I take camera out of pocket.

You rest in the palm of my frame.




Lord, why is it that when I pry open my hand to let go of life, more of life can fill my palm stretched-out?
Funny, how I forget that.

What could I let go of today?