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