Afraid to Dismount

He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount . . . 

What I want to know is, how did this happen? 

I don't remember climbing aboard this tiger. 

It was only a kitten then. 

Cute and fluffy. 

What was the harm? 

But it grew teeth and claws 

and bounded off in its own directions 

disregarding my carefully-crafted instructions. 

Those instructions are screams now-- 

desperate sound and fury that irritate the tiger, 

quicken the pace. 

Who will hold the tiger for me? 

Who will sheathe its teeth and claws? 

Who will help me when I stumble in unfamiliar paths?

Moving on

Moment by moment,
nothing is the same.

I can't stop time,
and yet I cling
limpet-like
to outmoded delusions
of control.

Bits of fossilized fear
break, crumble, disappear--
was that really me?

Whatever I dare let go
makes way for re-creation:
new hope, new joy, new love.

Is that really true?
If it is, it changes everything.