I don’t know how
to let go of this bird.
This small, inquisitive bird with dusty blue, expansive wings. This
bird that was made to spread its wings
spread its wings
and fly.

I don’t know why I
Slipped a tiny string
around its neck, claiming it my kite, this
my bluebird kite.

I don’t know where I
acquired this skill
to judge a bird’s ability to fly.

How have birds survived so long
without my input?

Where is my flying faith?

Here my ruminations about
all the reasons to not let go. Why
controlling every movement is the only
answer.

But then they will like me.
they will pick me.
they will consult me.
they      wont     see     me                fail

This bird cannot die.
It cannot be My Fault.

The string slips from my exhausted fingers.
That tiny bird soared into the expansive sky,

going precisely where,
wherever it was meant to.

no longer was it festering in the
smallness of my calloused clinched hand.

Photo by Andrea Reiman on Unsplash