My Holy One
Sometimes,
there are rocks in the garden
hidden under the weeds.
Hands are cut and bleeding
from the digging
and edges of the forgotten.
Some of the roots
so stubborn
that
the rope-like limitation
burns the palms while
Pulling
Pulling
Tugging.
Released,
it flies up and
soil flicks out in a shower
then settles.
On,
on to the next one.
I will not stop until my foliage and bloom are free…
Free of illusory existence.
The strangulation of my divine inheritance…
is now dead green
to be sunken within
to become nutrients for
my holy One.
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