You stand at the edge of the water,
holding me in a jar.
I am an assortment of firefly wings
and pulled root,
milkweed and creeping thyme.

The waves are mild,
tumbling as they follow.
Every bit of me is yellowed or bruised
or otherwise faded by the sun;
still, you stand.

What does it mean to let go?
Every sound is a name,
every name tells a story;
in this one,
there can be no other end.