Everything lets go
in the end. The mortar
in the brick. The love song 
of the finch
come fall. 

Everything lets go 
in the end, the spinning 
of the top, the last drops of rain, 
even the skin of the molting snake.

My dog jumped into the Middle Fork
of the Gila River
and reached for tiny minnows—
Out they swam between his teeth
and back into the stream. Everything
lets go, trickles down, heaves itself
into the ground. The motion
of the celestial spheres pauses each evening
for the stargazers, the knot in the wood, 
the amber pearl of sap hardened 
against the rough bark of the tree. 
The thread lets go of the needle, the comb 
releases the hair, the flame 
absolves the wick. The lightning bolt, 
and then the silence. Think of Jesus, his hand 
washing Judas’ foot one moment, 
and then he let it go.

Like Galileo, he knew the world stops spinning
when love catches you off guard.