Regarding the thing you find yourself aching
To let go of --
At least until you have found the source
Of the voice that loosens your hold.
And of that to which you would hold fast --
What is held is merely a spectre--
The fear of loss,
Not the thing itself.
In the grip of rededication,
In the release of the newly found,
Lies the black pearl
Of all Presence:
That graceful defiance
That makes room