Only love.
Only the holder the flag fits into,
and wind. No flag.           Rumi

Nada mas,
just this—
nothing more.
The flagline clangs flagless
against its pole.
The stubborn fly bangs its buzzing head
against the door.

Plain old
same old same-old,
nothing more.
What they said
would come to pass—
what rushes faster
and does not last—
has come,
and passed

Still, it’s a kind of surprise.
this nothing,
this just-this,
this bent, almost broken bough
without forward or backward,
without hope, or fear
that clacks in the hot breeze and brushes
your shoulder as you pass—

gently, lightly, as if to say
Really, what more was it
you wanted?
To enjoy the something all the more
knowing it’s nothing
is freedom

Relent.
Let go of your clinging,
your clanging and banging
No more looking over your shoulder to see
who is seeing—
Soon enough, no more shoulder
to look over—

Virginia Weir