I practice release:

For too many years I kept
carcasses baited on hook,
held skeletons long
after their slow decay.

My house reeks of
The dust piled heavy
on unread books,
the sand on windowsill
that comes from the
March winds.

I practice release:

Open cages,
leave doors ajar,
allow the cat to slip in
and out around the unkempt stoop.

Burn the poems,
the pictures, throw away
the artwork from behind dressers.
It means nothing to me.

Unhinge the cupboard doors,
let them fall open,
leave the salt out,
take the towels from off the rack.
The gates have been blown apart,
leave the wood to scatter.

I practice release
for what feels like the first time.
Unclench hands held tightly,
let go, let fly.

I allow the sand
to seep through my fingers,
sticking where it may.