The Closed Fist (a bit of Larroux poetry)

Firmly grasping nothing.
Holding hopes and dreams.
Like a python wrapped around a desire, the closed fist constricts a dream.
Demanding.
Deserving.
Determined.
And deceived.
It SHOULD be!
It MUST be!
It WILL be!
Firmly grasping nothing.
Like a gavel of judgment the closed fist pounds.
It echoes a heart's verdict.
I know best!
I know when!
I know how!
Firmly grasping nothing.
White knuckles.
Flushed skin.
Straining to hold.
This is something I SHOULD have, right?
This is something I MUST have, right?
This is something I WILL have, won't I?
Bruised and bloodied a lone finger surrenders.
Exhausted.
Panting.
Weary.
It surrenders.
The metamorphosis begins.
The closed fist becoming.
The closed fist opening.
A lone soldier followed by his men.
The closed fist transforming.
The open hand dawning!
Submitting.
Surrendering.
Becoming.
Like a flower opening it's eyes to the sunlight, the fingers open!
The hand blooms!
Unwilling, NOW willing.
Unwaivering, NOW free.
Unmoved, NOW inviting.
Oh, the cavernous space of the open hand!
There is room for so much more-
Blessings and yes's and dreams too big, now rest in an upturned palm!
Alive and free.
Alive and free!!
Alive and free!!!
Firmly grasping nothing.

-Jean F. Larroux, III