The Palm That Should be Heavy

 I didn’t learn control

from holding it tight—

I learned it from letting go

and watching the pieces float.

Like feathers,

or dandelion wishes I once made

when I didn’t know what I needed,

just that I wanted something more.

There were days

I spilled over—

too much feeling,

too much reaching,

like waves that forgot the rhythm

of the moon pulling them back.

And still…

I came back.

Not perfect.

But softer.

Now, when I think of control,

I don’t think of locked doors.

I think of nature—

how it changes

and changes again.

How it stays wild and still somehow steady.

A breeze doesn’t ask permission.

It just moves.

A tree doesn’t rush to bloom.

It just grows.

And maybe control

isn’t about being still—

maybe it’s about moving

gracefully,

intentionally,

with love.

If I could hold it again,

I’d hold it loosely.

With open palms,

like catching fairy dust.

Like trusting the wind knows

where to carry me.