Let go of thoughts you thought you ought to think.
Let go of words you thought you ought to say.
Let go of heavy stones, of rocks that weigh
too much. Let go of ships you thought would sink
unless you held the helm. Let go of pink
that masquerades as red, let go of gray
that masquerades as blue. Let go of day
and night, of spring and fall, of pen and ink.
Let go of counting syllables per line.
Let go of measured feet. Let go of rhyme.
Let go of metaphors of ice and snow
you thought would never thaw, of turpentine
you thought you ought to drink. Let go of time
because the time has come for letting go.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Yakov Azriel would
be pleased to hear them.