To decipher the art
of letting go of an egg in my palm
was to decipher the art of love.
Any tighter and it will submit
into a thousand tiny breaches
into a yolk not ready for light.
Should I release my cramping fingers,
should it tumble over my smoothed palm,
then it will drip and ebb
into cracks of linoleum,
Will I not have to clean a mess
of my own making either way?
But I didn’t ask to hold this egg.
And so I release it into a carton
and simply decipher the beauty
of letting go.