God of guts, God of fingernails,
God of hair; God of this whole creature,
this fruit of a branching flesh –
garden with us as we grow, bloom,
In its right season, its time of reduction,
as the body-begotten fades,
prepare us a place of a finer dust,
prepare for us a feather-light
and worthy image, a temple enduring.
Make ready for us a place
where mind enters once more
as wisdom's child.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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