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.