The heart needs more than quiet,
more than a home without desire.
Sorry old masters, before I can let go,
won’t I need to be holding on,
refusing to let something loose?
In my fist, I hold the aroma
of spring, of roses, of mown grass.
In my ear, I can still hear the creek
and the wren’s song turned to scold,
as the snake comes down the tree
from her emptied nest. The touch
of the breeze as I open my palm.
— Paul Jones, author of Something Wonderful