The great arms of the cottonwoods release fragments of Themselves across the evening sky, As if the edges of clouds could Lift from the flutter of leaves And drift out and away, As if giving up fragments of oneself Is soft and easy, Like the bend of the river Around the greening banks On a gentle summer day.
Like giving up is not brutal Or bones cracked on the cold tile of the Bathroom floor When you canβt even do this anymore And there are tears laid around you like bright Flowers of pain Spilled and wilted and dried up again And you curl into yourself And simply wait for The end.
There is a giving up in that roughness and there is a giving up in The radiance of the sun Emanating from the warm rocks at the edge of the cliffs, Lifted off the backs of the verdant hills, And there is a giving up that is a gift And not an acquiescence.
And thus it is, Like the riverβs edge, I give up this familiar space To the flooding of the rains;
Take the banks of all I know And allow their swift erosion Down to the vulnerability Of my soul.
I give up the strongholds Of dread And cast these crafted layers to the edges of the stars
And I wonβt give up the openness of my heart,
Or the way I can see so far Across this wild, limitless wilderness Of hope,
Or how it grows Within the shelter of your hands.
And just like them old stars I see that you've come so far To be right where you are How old is your soul? Well, I won't give up on us Even if the skies get rough I'm giving you all my love I'm still looking up