She cracked the dry seed pod open,
tipped the tiny black seeds into my hand,
closing my fingers around them—
a secret we both knew would not grow here.

Did she close my fingers to keep them safe,
or to make sure that I would feel them slip away?

I let go of the seeds—
but I kept the shape of her fingers closed around mine.

Shared with Poets and Storytellers United #229 – Letting go