Surrender   At times the only power left to us is negotiating the terms of surrender. We tell ourselves there’s dignity in loss, and even something noble, golden, when the very worst is averted, delayed, or wrapped in velvet, scented with perfume. The peace of nothing left to be afraid of, nothing left to save except a few more moments of grace — this is the taut face of the commodore, splendid in dress whites, bowing stiffly on the enemy ship, giving up his sword . . . or the fleeting taste of motherhood, almost sweet to the frightened girl giving up her child, giving up.                                                     for Elizabeth S.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont March 2012