This is about not dwelling in the past. Letting go of something doesn't have to be sad. It's leaving room to move forward.
My sand seeps from it's fragile sack,
and I keep it exposed,
but I keep it intact.
I held the sands that fell around him,
and kept them safe,
kept them close at hand.
Even after my body couldn't take his weight
and collapsed into a ditch
leaving scattered grains,
I still swept up the mess and held them close.
Peeking, ever so often,
at what made me so morose.
He gave me courage I couldn't achieve,
and thrusted my hands forward
to send the sands out to sea.