The Empty-Nester

There is a kind of love called letting go

which sits on its hands,
holds its tongue,
aches in silence.

It resists the urge
to pick up the phone,
fire off an e mail.

It waits, lifts the corner
of a curtain, watches
through the window of experience.

Gill Garrett

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Gill Garrett  would be pleased to hear them.