Surrender Everything

Surrender everything.

The way you make your bed
or your coffee with brown sugar and cream--
the crusty bread of the day
slathered, thick and sweet,
with apricot jam
for breakfast.

Forget the decaying of clocks
that try to keep you on time;
the journal
and the words
that seem
surprisingly sane.

Surrender suffering
and the floundering
of work; the polite banter
of tasks that have long ago
lost their meaning.

Give up grasp of the earth between toes
and, better yet, under your nails,
as you dig up witch weeds that grow
faster than flowers, fava beans,
or garlic, chives; even purple and green
 bruises of mint leaves.

Pry yourself loose from the fat fingers
of children who touched your face
and looked you daringly in the eyes;
who kissed you on the mouth
with real passion,
and love kindness--
not to be matched
in the careless exchanges
of adult currency.

But most of all,
tear it down,
that ramshackle dwelling
where memory drags you
into the grave
crying, misunderstanding,
arguing again and again
with a longing
that you never really owned.

It was, after all, just a roof
over your head
lacking a real foundation
and nothing but cold stone
to build a life around.